


Hey, Look Up

by Ruby_Wednesday



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Nicaise Lives, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, play along ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-20 03:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Wednesday/pseuds/Ruby_Wednesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicaise escapes the palace with his life and a stolen letter. He does his best to help Prince Laurent but it's hard when you're young and angry and the prince gets distracted by things like vengeance and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ugly

**Author's Note:**

> Five chapters spanning from the timeline of PG and KR. Nightly updates mon-fri this week. I've taken a few liberties but tried to stick to canon. Un-beta'd so please excuse any remaining mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note/TW: This is a Nicaise fic so there are many references to child sexual abuse in this fic and a couple slightly sexually perilous situations. There's absolutely nothing graphic or gratuitous and no abuse occurs on page. There's one short passage in the final chapter where Nicaise is triggered and briefly relives some of his assaults. Please proceed with caution if you think this content might upset you. It's my opinion that it's on the same level as the book contents but it may feel differently for you. Feel free to PM if you want to know more.**

Ugly people are so lucky. These serving boys scurry around the castle in their threadbare clothes and no-one gives them a second glance. Those unattractive old noblemen that whispered wetly about buying his contract in the not-too-distant-future are so happy to get the attention of a pretty young pet that they don't have to think about anything real. Lucky idiots. 

Nicaise is reduced to hiding in the grain store and he still can't go unnoticed. 

“You're not supposed to be here.” A portly cook put her hands on her hips and glares down at him. 

He thinks about running. He thinks about what Prince Laurent would do, and stands, acts like owns every fucking ounce of grain in the place and stares the cook down.

“I can go wherever I want,” he says. He's blown his cover but he never really had it in the first place. “I am Nicaise. I belong to the Regent. You do not tell me what to do.”

The fact that the cook rolls her eyes at him is not encouraging. No-one would roll their eyes at Prince Laurent (though that disobedient new slave might come close.) All Nicaise wanted was a place to plot in peace and this stupid woman with flour on her face doesn't even respect him enough to leave him be. 

She measures grain. Nicaise fixes his clothes and makes sure his eyes aren't red. He hardly cried at all. He knows better than that. He trained himself better than that. If he did cry, it was only from frustration. 

He summons all his Laurent-learned arrogance and sweeps out of the grain store, where the pastry cook is berating a kitchen boy for fetching the wrong fruit from the storeroom.

“I said peaches, boy,” she yells. “These are nectarines. Don't you know the difference?”

“Sorry, ma'am,” the boy says. “I never knew.”

“It says it – Never mind fetch the other ones.” 

What a life. What a lucky problem to have, Nicaise thinks. The wrong kind of fruit for a sugared dessert. Just a few days ago, if someone brought him the wrong kind of fruit he would have thrown it back in their face.

That grubby little brat getting berated has no idea how lucky he is.

Nicaise can't go back to his room. He doesn't have his own room. He has a narrow bed behind a dressing screen for when the Regent doesn't want to look at him. He has a one rail of clothing. He has one box of jewels. Nothing, really. Nothing at all. 

He doesn't even have Laurent to torment since he left for border duty and...

No. He might get mad and cry again.

Nicaise is too beautiful to blend in. He's got pearls in his hair and bells on his ankles and though is garments are tiny, they cost more than these tweed and wool wearing commoners earn in a decade.  
He goes to the yard and the boys and girls there scatter like chickens at the sight of him. He thinks they probably feel shabby and ashamed to be beside him. He knows that's a lie. 

They're afraid of him.

“You.” He points at a boy about his height. “Fetch me some drinking water.”

“Fetch it yourself,” the boy replies. The boy's friend, who's got patches on the knees of his trousers, tugs his sleeve. “I'm not afraid of him,” the boy says. “Everyone knows he's on the way out.”

No-one knows that better than Nicaise.

It was happening. People got older. Boys got less boyish. The prince had taken delight in pointing that out to him for months now. He thought he was clever enough to delay it. Not the ageing, not really. He couldn't stop that. All he could do was eat little portions and pluck away every hair that appeared on his body. He thought, if he showed how much an asset he could be the Regent might keep him around. Not forever. Just until Laurent ascended. Nicaise had a plan.

Like most things, it was ruined by Laurent.

I'll offer for you.

Don't hurt him. He's your family. He's not so bad, if you give him a chance.

It was time anyway.

A hand running over the stained white tunic. Nicaise with his knees pulled up to his chest praying he won't be noticed. The yellowing paper clasped tight in his hand. The realisation that he had played his hand and lost by showing any kind of loyalty to the prince. The paper didn't matter.

_It needn't be tonight. I'm not quite finished. I'm not a cruel man. Wine, to help him relax before bed. A measure of sleep tonic and he won't feel a thing._

The Regent had never shown concern for what Nicaise did and did not feel before.

So Nicaise was not about to close his eyes and let the man kill him.

He didn't need the brazen serving boy to get him water. He just needed to see that he would bite back. 

-

When Nicaise a child, seven or eight, he was taken to a grand house on the outskirts of the city by a man with gold rings all up his ears. He said he was going to help Nicaise. Back then, Nicaise was naive enough to believe him. At first, it was nice. He had a bed made of feathers and meat with every meal. The man taught him things and Nicaise was too young to know they were not the things most boys learned. Tricks. How to relax your throat. How to make your own numbing ointment. Another boy showed him how bat his eyelashes and how to get to the end as quickly as possible. How to be kind when it didn't work, what the master had. How to get them to drink so much it wouldn't work.

Nicaise hadn't thought of that other boy in years. 

Until now.

-

The Prince said that Nicaise, even when he was ten, could manipulate the Regent. That was the kind of statement that makes Nicaise think the Prince was not as clever as everyone believed him to be. Nicaise cannot manipulate the Regent. If he has any control over the man, it's down to the man's own weaknesses. 

Weaknesses can be exploited.

Like that whiny slave and the fire.

(Like Nicaise when he argued for Laurent.)

Like the Prince, when he the only thing he had has left in his cold heart was hatred for the Akielons.

The Regent's weakness is a pretty boy with an unripe body. In that house, with the man with the earrings, Nicaise had learned how to be the kind of boy men like the Regent would want to own. He had been taught it was some kind of grand achievement to be owned. 

The people who had given that idea, Nicaise knows now, had really fucked him over. 

But they have given him certain skills. He knows how to move as if he is playing a game with invisible fairies. He knows how to make his chin wobble and his eyes wide and his voice high and scream innocent innocent innocent.

He knows how to make the Regent think he was as eager and complicit in the act as the man himself. How to grovel. How to seduce. 

He taught himself other skills, too. Endurance, he calls it in his head.

He can endure lots of things – pain, sweat, skin-crawling arousal – brought on by the hand of a weak man pretending to be strong. He can even pretend to like it. He's so good at pretending that when the Regent has rolled off him, and Nicaise obediently brings him a cup of fine wine, the Regent drinks down the cup filled with the sleeping tonic and doesn't suspect a thing.

“Good boy,” he says to Nicaise. “You're so much better than the others.” Lies. “Wash your face and come back to bed.”

Nicaise thinks, _you will never touch me again._

-

 

The Regent snores. Nicaise has made this snippet of information into a cannonball these last years. The Regent is the most powerful man in Vere. He plays people like chess pieces. But he snores like a pig, has stretchmarks on his thighs, hairs in his ears and makes disgusting faces when he comes. Nicaise sleeps like an angel and is physically perfect. It doesn't mean much, in the grand scheme of things, but it helps Nicaise maintain his sense of superiority as he cut his way through the court.

The Regent snores while Nicaise prepares to leave. He can't take much. Just the letter, some coin, and some of his jewels. The way he figures, if he takes them all the Regent will know right away that he has run away. So most of the pretty pearls and shiny diamonds, earned by public obedience and private endurance, that he had stashed in the hopes of being able to buy out his own contract must remain in their mahogany and velvet box. 

Beauty knows beauty and expense knows expense. Nicaise chooses the most valuable items, ones that can be easily concealed, and with long ago learned grit and a lambskin sheath, hides them inside himself.

He leaves the Regent's room for the last time, a boy in frilly bedclothes, as he has done many times before. A silk purse dangles from his wrist and in it, the letter. None of the guards look twice and he hates them one last time.

He's doing this to save himself. He's doing it to help the Prince. But picking his way through the carpeted corridors, he thinks about the Akielon slave. He escaped. He did not stay gone but he got out. Nicaise gathered the slave waited until the streets came alive to leave the palace. That made sense. That giant of a man did not blend in either. Shrinking was not possible. That stupid slave's muscles hadn't even shrank during his time in captivity. 

But Nicaise is small still, which is good for being invisible. And he's willing to make himself ugly to live. 

First, the laundry which is dark and damp but not a remarkable place for him to go. The Regent's pet is well known around the palace for his love of clothing and stringent demands regarding his garments upkeep. 

Unfortunately, the laundry holds nothing small enough for Nicaise to wear. But there are scissors. He will need them, once he has clothes. 

In the kitchen yard, he will find clothes. The bakers are at work already. The bakers have assistants. The kitchen has servants. Nicaise waits, watches the sleepy-eyed boys scurry like sleepy rats, until the boy from yesterday makes an appearance.

“You,” Nicaise says. “You're wanted upstairs.”

“I'm not allowed go upstairs.”

“The Regent wants you upstairs. In his chamber.”

The boy pales. “You're lying.”

“Do you want to take that risk?” Nicaise asks. “You can't go like that. You have to get cleaned up first.”

The boy looks around the yard, into the steamy kitchen, and Nicaise knows that look – it's that of a boy looking for an adult to help him. There is no guilt for Nicaise, not for matters of survival. 

There's an out house by the yards with a tap and a bucket for this exact purpose. Nicaise wrinkles his nose and pushes the boy inside. 

“Hurry,” he says. “Don't make him mad.”

The boy slings his clothing over the top of the door. Brown trousers, thick as upholstery, and a shirt that hasn't been white since two owners ago. There's the sound of water. The simplest thing to do would be to grab the clothes and run and leave the servant boy to naked humiliation. 

Simple. But not effective enough for Nicaise. 

“Fuck,” says Nicaise, through the slats in the door. “That's tiny. No wonder you're so angry all the time.”

“Like that will matter to him,” the boy replies. 

Nicaise feels a pang. He pushes it down. “Don't get carried away,” Nicaise says. “You're a servant. You're nothing. Have you seen the guard Govart?” Hoping this servant doesn't know Govart is gone with the Prince. “You're going to be a reward for him.”

The boy goes white.

He has seen Govart.

When his chin wobbles, Nicaise knows it's not an act.

He pushes into the outhouse.

“Get out!” The boy tries to cover his very normal body. 

Nicaise gets very close and drums up the dirtiest insults he can think of. It's not hard. He knows what people think of him. When they don't work, he moves on. The boy is terrified and angry and Nicaise insults his mother, his sisters, and finally, when he accuses the boy of being a bastard, the boy strikes him in the face.

It's a new pain. Manageable pain. External pain is easier, Nicaise realises. It's not like he's never been bruised before.

“You hit like a milksop poltroon,” Nicaise spits. “You've got the strength of an underfed catamite, you bastard. Don't worry, though. That's what you'll be soon.”

They boy lashes out again. Again. Again. Nicaise takes it. He's taken worse. He makes himself not cover his face. He feels the crack of his cheekbone, the swelling of the eye, the smash of his perfect snub nose.

Soon, the boy stops and looks down at Nicaise who is bleeding on the outhouse floor. His pet garments are caked in mud. 

The boy stands still, uninjured but for his pride and the slices on his knuckles, but his eyes are dead. He knows what he has done. He must know. This nothing servant boy has damaged the Regent's prized possession. 

“This never happened,” Nicaise wheezes out. “Do you understand? If you want to live, this never happened.”

“Tricks,” says the boy.

“No tricks.” Nicaise hauls himself to his feet, head spinning, face throbbing. Out of nowhere, he thinks of the Akielon slave and the whipping. “Nothing happened. I'm taking your clothes, though.” 

The boy pants, as if he cannot believe anything that just happened. Nicaise, who has no personal shyness, uses cold rain water to wash away the blood and mud. He dresses in rough, ugly clothing. He only turns his back to transfer the letter from the purse to his pants. The hardest part is chopping away his curls but he does it with a steady hand. Endurance. 

He leaves the outhouse. He leaves the palace. No-one stops him. 

He doesn't look back.

-

Nicaise's face is sufficiently beaten to disguise his looks. He hopes. There weren't any mirrors in the outhouse and he hasn't been able to bring himself to look at his reflection in any puddles he passes on the road. The bruises are memorable. Blood still trickles from his nose. But maybe it's fine if people remember a battered peasant wandering in the early hours of the morning. Boys of every walk of life get beaten. 

Once you leave the palace, Arles is an ugly city. There's too much of everything and none of it a patch on the splendour of the royal quarters. Too many people with too many smells. Faces red with exertion and bumpy with blemishes. 

He blends right in.

He has nowhere to go.

(He didn't really think this through.)

Had he stolen a horse, he would have been able to move faster. But he's not that good of a rider and a horse would be noticed missing before a pet. As a pet, he can come and go as he pleases. As a young pet, he is peerless and none of the others have reason to report his absence in some petty act of revenge. 

But when his absence is noted, the Regent will send for him. 

(The Regent is a good hunter.)

A lone boy on the road will be easy prey. He needs to get to the Prince. He knows he has something more valuable than jewels in the letter. It just makes sense. Govart kept it all these years. The Regent kept Govart. Nicaise needs to bide his time in the bustle of the city and follow Laurent's company when the heat dies down.

He keeps moving. All morning, all afternoon, all evening he keeps moving. He steals a hat to shade his eyes. He dodges city guards that are not looking for him. He runs like a messenger and dawdles like a schoolchild. When dusk falls, he gets overcharged for a stale savoury pastry and thinks about where he can spend the night.

Nicaise doesn't know streets. His smarts are based on court-mannered talking. If he beds down in a random alley, he could attract any kind of trouble. His face is too busted for anything refined. He needs a somewhere private to shit and rest his aching legs. He scopes out the places that come to life at night time where his shabby clothes and battered face blend right in. But he doesn't know how to command these urban people like he did in the castle. Not when he looks so ugly. 

There's a public house that looks promising because none of the patrons seem to be soldiers. It looks dangerous because none of the patrons seem to be soldiers. From the alley, he watches through the window. He gleans the cost of a room and if they charge by the hour. He plans to acquire one and pretend his lover doesn't turn up. He's waiting for the right time to enter when a voice shouts, “Oi,” in his direction.

“Yes?” Cool, careful, he turns around. 

“How much for a --” The owner of the voice, a swaying man in his twenties, stops at the sight of Nicaise's battered face. 

“More than you can afford, sweetheart.” Nicaise plans to dodge the swaying man and find a new place to sleep. He is small, fast and sober. 

He is also extremely antagonistic and that was the wrong thing to say to the drunk man. The would-be...client? (Nicaise doesn't know the term for a man who shouldn't need to pay but wants something from a boy like him) lurches towards him and takes a firm hold of his arms.

The rough treatment is a shock, even after the beating. This isn't how life goes for Nicaise. Out of nowhere, he thinks of that simpering slave boy with the burn on his leg. Nicaise had hauled him around for his own amusement.

“Think you're smart?” The drunk man gives him a little shake.

“Yes.” Nicaise can probably take another beating. It might add to his disguise. Or it might go too far and reveal the letter or his money. Endurance. He didn't leave the palace to get roughed up by some city drunk. “What do you want?”

“A fuck.”

“Not that.”

“Scared?”

“I'll suck you for a silver sol.” Nicaise will, if he has to. Endurance. But he mostly intends to distract him enough to run away. Men and their cocks.A tug and a lick and they forget how to think. Easy prey. 

“Fuck off. Your worth a copper at most, urchin.”

Nicaise wouldn't smile for a copper sol let only kneel. “Fine,” he says. He changes his voice. “Just...please. Don't hurt me.” The man loosens his grip. “I've already been beaten today. Please.”

There's footsteps from somewhere in the alley Nicaise can't see. Too light to be guards. Opportunity. 

“Hey!” A voice. Older. Worried? “Let him go. None of that here.”

The drunk man lets go of Nicaise. “You shouldn't hang around in alleys if you don't want people to think you're a whore, boy.”

 

“You all right, boy?” The man who intervened approaches.

“I'm not a whore.” Nicaise had intended to say he was fine. 

“You in trouble?”

“I'm going.”

The man blocks him. “I'm Ferrand.” He points across the alley. “That's my workshop. You can come in and wash your face if you want.”

“I'm going.”

“Where?” asks Ferrand.

Nicaise follows him inside. 

Ferrand is a tailor. His workshop is cluttered and dusty and the fabric Nicaise sees is cheap and nasty. It's nothing like the places palace tailors made his court clothing.

“Don't touch anything,” Ferrand says.

“I wasn't planning on it,” Nicaise replies. This is an opportunity. “Please, sir, do you have a privy here?”

“There's a bucket beyond that curtain.” Ferrand looks at him strangely. Nicaise realises most street urchins would do their business on the street. 

“Thank you,” Nicaise says. 

“Here. Clean yourself up while you're in there.”

Nicaise winces as he cleans his face. Winces more as he checks on the jewels. He feels more secure in himself as he comes out of the curtain. But there's still a chance this man could call for the guards.

“You're not a whore. Not really a street rat. What are you?” Ferrand asks.

“The Regent's favourite pet,” Nicaise says, deadpan. Ferrand laughs. 

“Yeah. Sure. With a face like a slab of meat. You a thief?”

“No.”

“What's your trouble then?”

“I had a falling out with my master.”

“Stealing?”

What is his obsession with thievery?

“No,” Nicaise says. “It was actually....his wife. She took exception to the shine he took to me.”

“Did you?”

“I just want to stay out of trouble.”

“You can spend the night here,” Ferrand says, eventually. “No strings. But I'm locking you in the supply cupboard. I've gotten burned before.”

Nicaise considers the night a victory. Locked in, but safe. Trapped, but hidden. Nothing to endure but being alone.

-

He is used to getting ten hours sleep at least every night. After a week or two at court, he learned to stay up late and sleep well into the morning. When the prince left, and Nicaise tracked him down in the courtyard at sunrise, that was the earliest he had roused himself out of bed in years. He couldn't sleep that night. He couldn't get the physician to listen him and he was still annoyed with the prince over the earring and the slaves and everything and now Nicaise wishes he had just given him the letter then.

But he sleeps in the supply closet. He looks so bad, now, that if a guard broke down the door they wouldn't recognise him. The tailor is smart for locking him in. Maybe, if Nicaise wasn't so tired, he would think it was nice that the man had been kind. Maybe that's how things are outside the palace.

-

He is woken, rudely, to the unpleasant sight of a stout older woman looking down at him. 

“Not another one,” she says, with a sigh.

“I was trying to sleep,” Nicaise says. He's trying to remain calm. He's trying not to fumble for the letter and the coin to make sure it is still there. Women make him uncomfortable. Like the baker who caught him in the grainstore. Like the occasional noble wives who visit the court and look (looked) at him with pity. The Regent doesn't like women. Nicaise doesn't know any. 

“What's your name, mite?” She brushes a broom around his legs. 

“Auguste.” It's the first name that comes to mind. His own is not an option. And there are plenty of boys named after the late crown prince. 

“How'd you wind up here, Auguste?”

“The tailor said I could stay the night.”

The cleaning woman presses her lips so tightly together they disappear. She has a mole on her left cheek with two hairs sprouting out. Ugly. Like Nicaise is now

“You a whore?” 

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Why?” Nicaise demands. 

“Look, he pays my wages to dust this dump and do some darning but he's a bad'un. You stay here, you find that out for yourself.” The woman looks over her shoulder. There's a leather strap on the wall. Nicaise knows tailors do not need leather straps to work. 

“You don't do a very good job. This place is filthy.”

“Some things can't be clean,” she replies. “You should clear off, Auguste.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“You a whore?” she asks again. 

“I could be,” Nicaise says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! yes, you! all comments/thoughts are very welcome and appreciated.


	2. burrows

The Prince would never hide in a brothel. He's probably never even been in a brothel. The slave had gone straight to a brothel, when he was caught escaping, and Nicaise certainly doesn't want to be like that Damen. He wants to be as dangerous and unpredictable as Laurent. He wants to be untouchable. But he knows what he knows and he passes through the door with the symbol carved in the wood just as the day begins all the same. There's an atmosphere here, unlike the court or the town, that does not intimidate him. There are velvet furnishings so shabby they should only be seen at night-time. There's the dust swirling in the sunlight and the linger odour of alcohol and sex. 

“Next time you bring me a waif, sister,” the maitresse says to the cleaning woman. “Make sure he's not disfigured.”

“It will heal,” Nicaise says. Spits, maybe. This self-induced ugliness is a temporary thing. The maitresse grabs his chin and conducts a full inspection of his battered face. "Unlike that hair. Did you steal you're whore's shaven pubic hair to make a wig?"

The cleaning woman lets out a shocked little gasp. The brothel-keeper cocks her head. She's shown her hand by not cuffing his head or worse for his disrespect. Nicaise could probably pass some time here.

“Good bones under the swelling. Nice eyes.” She peers at him. “Very nice eyes. Bat those lashes, boy.”

“No.”

“Strip.”

“No.”

He's proud of himself for not telling her to fuck off. Never bite the hand that feeds you.

“Come on, you haven't got anything I've not seen before.” She narrows her eyes. “Do you?”

“I've got crown jewels hidden in my rectum,” Nicaise says.

“Fine. I'll wait until you've healed from your beating.” The maitresse gave him another appraising look. “You know what this house is?”

“Lady,” Nicaise replies. “I know things you can't even imagine.”

In response, she rolls her mud-brown eyes. Nicaise thinks about popping them out with a spoon. 

“You can earn your keep around the house while you heal, boy.” 

“Fine.” Head down. Un-detected. He can do that. 

“What's your name?”

“Auguste.”

“It can't be.”

“I think you'll find it can,” Nicaise replies.

“No. It will put the clients off. They love the dead prince. The other one, the whole city wants under them. You can be called Laurent. He's got eyes like yours.”

“And what can you be called?” Nicaise asks.

“Maitresse.”

\- 

She shows him a room where he can rest which is no bigger than the store room he slept in the night before. He cannot rest now, of course. But he senses this is an act of kindness. It's important to have place that is your own. There's a loose floorboard, which he ignores. There's a bricked over chimney, which has potential. Eventually, he finds a loose brick in the chimney breast and stashes the jewels there. The coin stays in his boot. The letter on his person.

Soon, he will be able to strike out to find Prince Laurent.

Earning his keep means scrubbing scum-stained sheets and beating ash-thick rugs. It is distasteful, back-breaking work. His soft hands are not used to such ill-treatment. Nicaise perseveres. The maitresse looks at him as if he has passed a test.

People in brothels do not ask questions. He cannot ask, for fear of drawing attention to himself.

But he cannot say nothing either.

“If I am to be called Laurent,” he says, after a long day of working and listening for gossip that did not come. “I should know know news of the castle.”

“Trust me, lad, it's not nattering they'll want to do with you,” the maitresse replies. “But the prince is gone to the border to serve the country there. He left in a grand parade just a few days ago. Did you see him?”

“No.” 

“All I know of the palace is that there were some slaves and now they are gone.”

“That's not interesting at all.” 

The maitresse lets out a sharp cackle. “They're going to go nuts for you, boy.”

Nicaise says nothing.

-

He works. He hides in that tiny room that night while the house comes to life with the sound of drinking and fucking. He's not a child. He's far from innocent. He needs to listen because if guards come, he needs to run. He doesn't trust the maitresse. He doesn't trust the woman who brought him here or the stories she told about the tailor. He only trusts himself and the belief he holds that the letter he stole is valuable.

-

More scrubbing. His hands are red, raw, ugly as sin. His face is healing. The maitresse approves. Her brothel is a respectable establishment and it is imperative that none of the clients think he has been mistreated here. She gives him lotion for his hands. He's nearly grateful.

Later, she sends him to the apothecary with a list. No coin. It will go on her bill. Nicaise dashes over the dirty cobblestones with his head down. He tries to look like all the other errand boys. He tries to look like he has done this before. There's an odd moment of satisfaction when the medicine man hands him a brown paper package tied with twine. He has purpose now, as he walks through the city. 

He feels like maybe he could forget about the letter.

He could be Laurent, errand boy by day, whore by night, right under the Regent's nose.

Except the Prince Laurent had said he would offer in the future. Nicaise believed him. And he knows that he would only ever be a whore. There would be no chance to climb the ranks. No-one to appreciate his beauty. No-one to like him when he's ugly. 

He's lost in thought, distracted, when he sees the red guards up ahead. He doesn't recognise their faces but the uniform tells him they are no regular city patrol. His heart threatens to stop. Getting caught now, when all he's done is clean sheets, is not an option.

He slips down a side street. Then another. And another.

He cannot see any guards. He does not think he's been pursued.

Good.

Unfortunately, he is also lost.

What Nicaise knows of Arles is confined to the palace, the high-brow places he liked to shop, the inside of a store cupboard and the inside of that brothel. 

He thinks to retrace his steps, except he still fears the guards. Except he was too scared to notice his surroundings at all as he fled.

But standing on the street like you don't know what you are doing is not clever either. Purposefully, he keeps walking and comes to a square of apartments with a square of dirt in the middle that is positively crawling with children. It's disgusting. They have snotty noses and nitty hair and they squeal like stuck pigs over pathetic ball games. It's pitiful. They laugh and leap like they don't even know how stupid they are. He watches them with derision. He is not sad. He is not. The only reason he feels like he might cry is because he's lost.

“Hey!” A boy with a crusty nose shouts in his direction. Nicaise's heart gives a start, different to the one it gave at the sight of the guards. 

“Yes?”

“What are you looking at? Go back to your brothel, whore!”

Skin aflame, Nicaise flees. He doesn't understand. He's ruined his hair, his face, and his clothes are just as shabby as theirs. How do they know what he is?

-

“I got lost,” he tells the maitresse.

“Not used to the streets?”

“My last master kept me on a tight leash,” he says. “It was made of gold.”

“Like the prince's hair. When yours grows down a bit more, we might dye it.”

-

The thing is, Nicaise is not resourceful. He has never had to be. For as long as he can remember, his looks were his primary currency and he traded on them to ensure men provided for him. He's not quite sure how to get from A to B. It's coming time to leave Arles. Past time. He needs to catch up with the Prince and his company. 

He needs to stay undetected.

His face is healing, nicely. Which is good and bad. Good for his self-esteem. Bad for his chances of not being recognised. The maitresse will want to put him to work soon. He can do it. 

He would rather not do it.

He can't just take off on foot. Or on horseback. He can't read maps or tack a horse or do anything practical. Such is the life of a pet. They say in Akielos, the slaves exchange their freedom and receive complete care and respect instead. In Vere, they just leave you defenseless.

Nicaise waits. He spends hours examining his healing face. Bruises fade. Cuts stitch into scars. The bump on his nose does not disappear. Ugly. Like his insides. He waits. His face is nearly better. He probably just looks tired now, when the maitresse informs him he will have a room tonight.

“I've had a room every night.”

“A working room. Bathe. I'll find you clothes. There's a nozzle by the bath to --”

Nicaise says, “I know what to do.”

He waits. No-one asks him about payment or what he is willing to do. The assumption is that he is willing to do anything. No, that's wrong. The assumption is, his willingness doesn't matter.

He waits.

The door opens. To look on the bright side of things, the man is not drunk. He does not seem angry. He does not smell. He is not a guard or a noble.

He swears when he sees Nicaise.

“Something wrong?” the maitresse asks.

“How old is he?

“Laurent is fourteen.”

“He looks about twelve.” The man peers down his hooked nose. It's ugly. But his face is not. Strange how that can happen. “Are those bruises?”

“From his previous establishment.” The Maitresse backs away from the door. “Talk to him. If you want another, I can arrange it.”

“There is no need,” Nicaise says. “To play pretend. I am fourteen. I am no bumbling virgin.” He goes through the motions of physical flirting, the things men want to see to convince themselves you want it too. “You asked her for a boy.”

“Your voice hasn't broken,” the man says. 

“Some men like that.”

“You shouldn't be here. Laurent, is it? Like the prince. Live up to your namesake and do something worthy with your young life.” The man speaks fondly of the prince. Nicaise can't decide if this makes him like him more or less.

“They say he idles with a harem of slaves and won't go to border to protect us from Akielos.”

“Lies. He is gone to serve our country. I heard from one of my cousins his company is camped near Nesson. He will not move until they are up to standard,” the man says.

Nicaise feels a pinprick of hope. Nesson. He has a destination now. “Have you ever been there?”

His head is spinning. This man could be a merchant. He could be the person who really wants to save Nicaise. He could take him, show him the way. 

“I've hardly been outside of Arles.” The man puts his hand on the doorknob. “Good luck, Laurent.”

He leaves without a second glance.

“Don't worry,” says the Maitresse. “The next one won't be so fussy.”

But Nicaise will be. 

-

There's always another man. One with less scruples or more money or, worse, a place in the Regent's court. There's always another boy. One who would gladly turn him in for a chance to further their own aims. Nicaise would probably do the same.

He's wasted too much time. What's the difference between being a whore or a pet? Whores have less power. 

He waits until the house grows silent. The whores exhausted and the clients all passed out or gone. He listens while the throaty cackles that bounce around the kitchen while the whores discuss their night reach a cresendo, then die out. When they laugh, it's worse than any sound of fucking. Sex is simple. Laughter is not.

He leaves the brothel.

He walks right out of Arles.

His nose is slightly crooked now. His face is still partially swollen. His curls are gone and the short hair that remains is parted and slicked under his tweed hat. He looks as unremarkable as any other low born boy except he's got crown jewels and state secrets. The patrols don't give him a second glance.

-

From trips to Chastillon that Nicaise steadfastedly does not think about, he knows there is a trading post on the main road that goes south from the city. It's a place where merchants can operate without fear of offending the court, or where travellers can stop for one last chance to rest before they reach Arles proper. If he can make it there, undetected, he can probably make it further.

It won't be hard to tracke the golden prince. Vere loves him because they've never been teased or betrayed by him. There'll likely be legions of awestruck people tracking his every move. Plenty of enemies, too. 

But Nicaise has never made this journey in cheap hobnailed shoes. He was always in a wagon draped in velvet, curtains closed, service to give. On the road without a horse or even a donkey, he knows the size of himself. Small. Weak. Easy prey. If he walks fast, he looks afraid. If he walks slow, lets the discomfort show, he looks vulnerable. 

There's this misconception he has heard, even encouraged, that he is cunning and manipulative. He thinks that the prince is behind some of the talk and maybe that was a kindness. But Nicaise had relied on his looks and his position to get his way. He doesn't know, now that he is ugly and position-less, how to charm anyone.

Men with carts trot by, carrying barrels of milk and bushels of apples, and some of them look. If he asked, they might let him ride in the back. They might not even want anything in return.

But he cannot have any attention on him, with the palace so close and the prince so far away, so he walks on, ignoring the blisters and pretends not to see anyone at all.

Until, he spots a squadron of soldiers ahead and dives into the trees. Not his most graceful moment but ugly people don't need to be graceful. Of course there are soldiers on the road. Of course there will be soldiers near the trading post. They keep the peace and carry out Regent's work. They probably don't know him.

But this close to Arles, they might.

He keeps to the trees, jumping every time a branch catches his clothes. 

He is not afraid. He is not afraid. 

(He is very afraid.)

Overhanging branches and fat brown leaves make everything dark. Daylight makes the shadows come to life. His feet slip in mud, crunch in foliage. He hears, then, a pealing sound just ahead. Laughter, high and childish, pure as bells pushed back the darkness.

Beyond the trees, there is a clearing. In the clearing, there is a lake that sparkles where the sun kisses its surface. In the lake, there are children. Younger than Nicaise. Young enough to have nowhere to be in the daytime. Young enough to shed their clothes and splash and swim and squeal without any kind of personal shame. They are fresh in that country way, different to the city urchins.

Joy radiates from these children and their games. It twists Nicaise's guts. Fresh anger simmers his blood. He was a pet. He was going to be killed. None of that made him feel this kind of rage. This is what was robbed from him, over and over again, -- the chance at joy.

He sees these happy children but he does not watch them. He presses on through the trees. The ground is soft and it occurs to him too late to just take the painful shoes off and let the blisters go un-rubbed. He presses on. The trading post is just ahead.

-

Nicaise has made himself ugly enough to blend in with these common traders and serving boys. He has coin enough to buy a drink and some bland food that tastes divine after the long walk. He waits. He watches.

Outside, he spots a wagon that looks promising because it is full of material instead of live chickens or clunky metalworks. Closer, he hears a conversation that does not suggest the owners of said wagon are heinous people. Nicaise has heard enough talk from heinous people in his short life to identify obvious signs of awfulness. He could however, overlook almost any degree of awfulness when he hears the men say they are heading east. 

He waits. The merchant men go back inside to hammer out one last deal before they leave Arles. The wagon park is still busy. It's chaos, when Nicaise releases a few skittish horses and he uses that opportunity to burrow into the wagon. It's tight but not uncomfortable. He waits, silently, hoping for some of the luck that follows Prince Laurent around to have blessed him when he assumed his name in the brothel. 

Today is Nicaise's lucky day. 

He remains undetected while the wagon is hitched and the wheels begin to roll, taking him east. 

It is not, however, the trader's lucky day. They're only a couple of slow hours away from the inn when one of those sturdy wooden wheels winds up in a deep pothole and an almighty crack rings out. You don't have to be an expert in wagon repairs to know that is not a good sound. Nicaise can't see anything inside the wagon that would be used for repairs. But he cannot see much of anything at all in the dark.

He pulls his knees up to his chin. He tries to disappear as the voices get louder around the wagon, as the doors open and light beams in and an older man, like as old as thirty, spots Nicaise in between two bolts of velvet.

“Charls!” The man yells over his shoulder. “We have a stowaway.”

-

Nicaise summons all his court-learned dignity as he emerges from the wagon, which he now learns is part of a caravan of wagons and at least ten men are peering down at him. 

“Hello,” he says. “I am sorry for the trespass.”

The man Charls, who is the boss, and is even as old as the man who opened the door and has a neat full beard, crosses his arms and stares him down. Nicaise considers his options. He can pretend to be stupid. He could try to fuck his way out of trouble. 

He could get handed over to the nearest Veretian guard.

“Did you tamper with the wheel?” asks the man who opened the door.

“Guilame, there is a pot hole,” says Charls.

“The perfect place for a loosened wheel to come straight off,” says Guilame.

“I did not touch the wheel,” says Nicaise. “Honestly, I wouldn't even know how to loosen a wheel.”

“Then why are you hiding in my wagon, boy?” asks Charls.

Nicaise knows that the best way to lie is to be a truthful as possible. “I heard you talking at the trading post about going East. I'm trying to go East, to meet my brother.”

“Just East?”

“Nesson-Elloy,” Nicaise says and his heart is pounding fast as a horse gallops. “My brother is in the prince's guard. There's a position for me as a servant, if I can get there.”

“Why aren't you travelling with soldiers, then?”

“I don't like soldiers other than my brother,” he says. “They're mean. They...”He gulps. He makes his eyes very big. “You know how men can be with a younger boy. I have no parents and --”

“I see,” says Charls. 

“He could be lying,” says Guilame.

“I have a little coin from my last job,” Nicaise says. “If you let me tag along I will pay my way.”

“No,” says Charls. “If I let you tag along, you'll earn your keep. Starting with helping Guilame with the wagon.” He lowers his voice. “He's a cute little thing and well-spoken. If we clean him up, he can wear some of the fabrics. The wealthy mothers would love to imagine their boys like him.”

This reasoning appeals to Nicaise. Nothing out of charity. Nothing ugly. A trade he can understand. The further away from the palace, the less chance someone will recognise him. 

“My name is Laurent,” Nicaise says. “Like the prince. And I will do whatever work you require of me.”

Guillame thrusts a piece of equiptment at him. “Hold this,” he says. Nicaise does. “No, child. It won't do any good there. Hold it while I prop up the wagon.”

Nicaise flushes scarlet and ignores the laughs of the other people in the caravan. He thought he was immune to humiliation. But it turns out, he just needed to be embarrassed by people worthy of respect.

-

 

Being a merchant's dogsbody isn't so bad. Nobody rapes him. That's an improvement on his last position.

(This dark thought makes Nicaise smile so wide, Guilame starts to suspect he's a saboteur again.)

It's not that he couldn't handle being a pet. He learned quite early on the best ways to deal with the Regent. The man's weakness was boys like Nicaise so Nicaise did his best to exploit that and was occasionally successful. 

Nicaise smiles because he knows the prince would laugh if he said that to him. No-one else but the prince would laugh. And he will see Laurent soon and Laurent will fix this. He's good at schemes. Nearly as good as his uncle. Nicaise will give him the key and Laurent will open the lock and no-one will cut off his head.

The man Charls makes him work hard. Nicaise is a stranger to hard work. His hands chafe. His back aches. But the man does not take any of his coin. He does not shake him down for any of his hidden treasures. The only time he touches him is to clap him on the back at the end of gruelling period of unloading one of the wagons outside a garment makers in East Barbin. 

(Nicaise nearly falls over from the force. He wasn't expecting to be...praised and it conjures up a diluted version of those children playing in Arles, those people in the lake. It makes him think of leaves caught up in the breeze.)

“I'm exhausted,” he says. “What's happening with dinner.”

“You spent an hour helping,” Guilame replies. “The rest of the time you were styling your hair.”

“Your point is?” Nicaise is still tired. An hour is a long time when you're not used to lifting anything heavier than, well, a fork. He smiles again, thinking of how he stabbed that big Akielon prisoner in the thigh. Power. It meant a lot for a boy like Nicaise to get the upper hand on anyone, let alone someone as smart and strong as the slave.

Anyway, his hair has grown out a little and he absolutely needs to figure out how to make it look presentable. 

“We've been invited to dine with the Lady Elisa tonight,” Charls says. “You won't know who she is, but...” 

Nicaise stops listening. He knows who she is, a widow of some minor lord known for being a patron of the arts. He knows who all the nobility are. It came in handy at court. And while he's never met this lady, because the Regent dislikes women and a woman without a husband or a child is of no use to him, that doesn't mean there won't be other nobility or soldiers there who may recognise him. Or that the Regent would have cast out some rumour of a boy criminal who happens to look like Nicaise who needs apprehending. His hair has grown back some. His bruises are mostly gone and he hasn't really been brave enough to look in a mirror to see what scars he has. The feel of the bump in his nose is horrific enough. 

He's gotten enough looks to know he is still pretty. And Charls is not a stupid man. If he hears about a missing pet, he will certainly piece the facts together. Charls seems like a good man but no-one in this forsaken country can go up against the Regent. That's how power works. Even wealthy, successful men don't really have any when there are royals in the equation.

“Are you listening?” Charls asks.

“Sorry,” Nicaise says because that seems better than admitting he was not.

“Stick out your arms,” Charls continues. “Let Guilame measure you. We'll get one of the smaller suits tailored for you in an hour or so.”

“I --” Nicaise is lost for words. Then, Guilame is measuring his inside seam and he finds plenty of swear words to use instead. 

“You're a handsome lad,” Charls said. “You don't need me to tell you that. The noblewoman has three grandsons. You're going to help us sell cloth, tonight.”

-

There's no real way to get out of it. They see right through his feigned illness and scoff at his declarations of exhaustion. 

“I agreed to work,” Nicaise eventually spits. “Not use my body to --”

Charls' face softens. He sends Guillame and the servants away. “Laurent,” he says. “It's just an impression. They will admire you. They will look at you and think I want to be like that.”

_Be like that. ___

No-one, not even the other pets in the palace, have wanted to be like him. They might have envied his position. That was the extent of it. 

Nicaise has often been fitted for clothing before. Sumptuous leathers. Barely-there wisps. Innocent tunics. He liked it, at the time, but he finds that he likes being fitted for proper suits like men wear, nearly as nice as what the prince would wear, is so much better.

Charls reaches towards him. “Let me show you how to do the laces,” he says.

Nicaise jerks away. “I know how.”

-

The party is ... fine. Nicaise recognises no-one. There aren't any soldiers or royal guards because all the soldiers and royal guards are occupied. (In Ios and Delfeur and Arles and places more important than this.) The dinner party is filled with ladies who fill their lives with dinner parties while their husbands and sons fight and/or make decisions. There are no pets. Not even any high class whores. The people just talk and eat and one lady has her daughter, who is roughly Nicaise's age, read a dull poem.

It's nothing like Arles and that's just fine.

When people look at Nicaise (the daughter, the few young men, the mothers) there hardly have any malice in their eyes. They hardly even see him. He's just an impression. Just an apprentice who can carry off a purple velvet jacket with panache. 

He doesn't know how to feel about that.

He doesn't know how to feel about seeing Charls, who is good and decent and in possession of a relatively high position in society, practically grovel to sell cloth to a bored lady who may or may not want to get all new drapes for her seventeen bedrooms. 

“You know,” Nicaise begins, “The prince dresses only in dark blue. For his banner.” 

“There won't be any blue left if the uncle has his way,” mutters one woman. But the others sit up and take notice. 

“How would you know?” Guilame asks. 

“I have seen him. Everyone in Arles knows these things about him.

Charls gets many orders for expensive blue fabric. He brings Nicaise to all his future trades and Nicaise likes it. He can be charming. He can be haughty. He can wear the hell out of any outfit Charls sends his way, even a set of uniforms for the servants in a great house. The steward lets out a little sigh at the sight of him because they all know his staff will never look so good.

Selling cloth is fine. 

But Nicaise still has an important letter and a more important person who needs to get the letter.

They travel on.

-

Nesson-Eloy is crawling with soldiers. 

There are soldiers from the prince's army. Everyone knows they are camped nearby. Nicaise can practically taste the royal blood in the air. Rumours fly. The prince has gigantic man as a personal guard who will tear out the throat of anyone who comes near him. He is cruel to the men, engaging locals to strip down their camp just so they have to rebuild it again. He is the most gloriously beautiful person you'll ever lay eyes on. Women and men faint at the sight of his face. 

(That one makes Nicaise bristle a bit.)

But the prince's men aren't the only ones there. The village is infested with the Regent's men, too. Nicaise's whole body reacts at the first sighting of a red livery. He doesn’t meant to freeze. He doesn't even have time to think. They could know him. Any of them could know him. The Regent could have figured, after Nicaise tried to argue for Laurent, that he would have gone straight here. Maybe he should have stayed in the brothel. Whoring was something he could do. 

“Laurent,” barks Guilame. “Keep up.”

“Sorry,” Nicaise says, scurrying along like a rat. But the name is enough to make men look at him. The red soldiers whirl around like dogs at feeding time. But all they see is a merchant's apprentice and go on their way. Nicaise's heart is beating so fast and his pockets are so heavy and all he can do is follow the merchant wagon over the cobbles.

He needs to get the prince's camp. But he's afraid. What if the road there is not safe? He could be recognised. The Regent has moles and they could on lookout and he could be gutted before he sees the familiar blond head that he's come to think of as beacon of hope. 

Charls has cloth to sell and Nicaise is good at helping him. He doesn't mind the tired feeling at the end of the day when he collapses onto a pallet in a shared room. He doesn't mind feeling safe even though there are older men in the room. He doesn't mind feeling superior to the house boy in the inn who only gets one copper for a poke. 

Everyone in town is saying the prince has been there for a while and shows no sign of moving yet. Nicaise can go to the camp tomorrow.

-

The houseboy confronts him at the back of the kitchens when Nicaise goes down for fresh water for Charls. 

“Don't even think about stealing my customers,” he snarls. “I know what you are.”

“I'm an apprentice, you whore,” Nicaise snarls right back. “I wouldn't let any of these inn-dwelling cretin but their dicks in me if it was a matter of life and death.”

The house boy folds his arms across his chest. “If you were really an apprentice, you wouldn't have said anything about dicks.”

“Fuck off,” says Nicaise, brushing past the boy. He's not even that pretty. He would never make it as a pet in the palace. He would never be able to carry off the rust and gold jacket Charls had Nicaise model earlier for a prospective buyer. He probably earns a pittance whoring himself out to drunks and soldiers. 

“Do you want to go to the bakery with me?” 

“No.” Nicaise's mind is racing. It could be a trap. The houseboy could know more than he's letting on. He could be planning to deliver him to the hands of a the Regent's men. Briefly, Nicaise wonders if this isn't some scheme of the prince's. But Laurent doesn't know Nicaise is here. Boys like Nicaise don't get rescuers. They do it themselves.

“The baker's wife gives me sweetmeats at the end of the day,” the boy says. “Sometimes, she even has an eclair.”

“I'm not a whore,” Nicaise says.

“All right.”

“I have to bring this to my employer.” Nicaise holds up the water jug. “He's in the best room.”

“He's in the second best room,” the boy replies. “The best room has been occupied for weeks. Meet me back here when you're ready.”

Nicaise finds himself agreeing. 

-

 

It's simple. They stroll through winding side streets and the baker's wife gives them flaky pastries with apricot preserves oozing from the middle, sweet enough to mask the fact the treats are already slightly stale. Nicaise's fingers are sticky and when he licks them, the feel stickier. It's disgusting, really, but it's also a little bit nice to not have to dip them into a filigree water bowl between every bite (or have someone else feed him.)

The houseboy is kind of nice, too. He's not ugly, not really. He's nearly naive, because that's what happens when you live in a backwater town like Nesson-Elloy instead of the palace at Arles. He has some funny stories about the people who avail of his services in the inn, which make Nicaise laugh like he hasn't laughed in months.

“I knew it!” The boy crows, victorious. “You would be shocked if you weren't some kind of catamite too. Is it for the merchant --”

“Earlier you thought I was a whore.”

“Same difference,” the boy replies. 

“I am neither,” Nicaise says. “No-one around here could afford me.”

The boy laughs now and launches into a story about a crying soldier who didn't want to pay. It's funny because stories about pathetic old men who think the boys the pay to fuck them care about their feelings are always funny. But the laughter is gone from Nicaise's body. He doesn't even bother to chase it again. It's not for him.

The place is crawling with soldiers. Boys like them can't be trusted. The houseboy could easily tip off one of the Regent's men about a blue-eyed youth with all the markers of a paid whore. The houseboy does some painfully accurate panting and Nicaise's mind is on fire. This could be a trap. He could be screwed and he has no way to get a message to the Prince and his evidence will go unseen and forgotten. 

It gets hard to breathe. When the boy calls the name Laurent, Nicaise forgets to answer.

“Just because you are named for the prince doesn't mean you get to act like him,” the boy snaps. 

“Sorry,” Nicaise says. They're nearly back at the inn. The laughing feeling is long gone. “Is it true the prince is camped nearby?”

“Of course it's true. All anyone can talk about is the prince and his men. There are people looking for him all the time but, of course, he'd never show up anywhere as gauche as here. The butcher's boy said he saw him, and that's a lie. You would know if you saw the Prince of Vere.”

Nicaise thinks of Laurent in the courtyard the last time he saw him – the gleaming hair and tight riding leathers and eyes brighter than the evening sky here and certainly, sadly, brighter than Nicaise's own. You would definitely know if you saw him.

“They say he's frigid,” Nicaise says, bitterness on his tongue. “They say his cock doesn't even work.” It's nice to be crass. The boy doesn't react at all to Nicaise's words. “So he wouldn't be interested in the likes of you anyway.”

“The likes of us,” the boy replies, peevish. “And I sucked off one of the men who got turned off his guard and he said that the prince has a bed slave. Some big Akielon brute. They share a tent.”

“Is that so?” Nicaise says, smiling despite himself. People know nothing. Laurent hates the slave. He flayed him all the way to death's door just for touching him. He would never even dream of fucking that Damen person. If you could call him a person. The prince was probably using him as a guard dog to keep out his uncle's men. He was clever like that. He would never get caught in a possible trap like the one Nicaise had just walked into. 

The boy is bouncing on the balls of his feet. He keeps looking at Nicaise funny and Nicaise starts to worry that this is a trip. That the boy isn't stupid. He's stalling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nicaise demands. 

The boy backs off. “Nothing. I have to go inside,” he says. “Your boss and his men aren't interested. I have to drum up business but...”

“But,” Nicaise says, archly. The boy is just foolish. He's not about to lead Nicaise to his death. He's just a lonely whore. 

“No-one here's got money. I'm free for the night once the bar shuts and...”

“And,” Nicaise says. It's good to have the upper hand sometimes. 

“If you want to meet me, we could go do something.”

“Something.”

“That's really annoying, repeating what I say.”

“All right,” Nicaise says. He thinks he could get the boy to show him to camp. He thinks he could get him to bounce all the balls of his feet again. He thinks if he laughs again, they could have that light feeling he saw back in Arles. He thinks the boy wants him, which is nothing new, everyone wants Nicaise. But it's nicer somehow because he's not old and he has no money. 

The boy flits back into the inn. His walk changes as the door closes and the Nicaise looks up at the stars. If he stays outside, he can't be caught out. He will hear soldiers approach. He can see who comes and goes. It's safer outside, than in the shared room because he won't be trapped he'll be able to run.

Beside the inn, Nicaise practises what he is going to say to the Prince when he tracks him down. He doesn't expect any loving reunion. But maybe...Laurent did say he would bid for him. He argued for that slave when he had no reason to. He might be glad to see him, in the sense that he would exercise that strange loyalty of his. He might hold out his hand. Nicaise never minded when the prince used to tug him along by the hand the palace.

But he's not stupid. He'll make sure the prince agrees to protect him before he hands over the evidence. And he will be suitably caustic while doing so. Nicaise has a reputation to uphold. 

It gets darker. He jumps at every set of footsteps. He just wants to be finished hiding. He wants to hide behind the prince's guard. He just wants to get out of Nesson-Elloy. 

There's a soggy crate in the alley beside the inn and Nicaise stands on it so he can peer in cloudy window. The inn is quiet. The house boy won't be earning tonight, he thinks. Most of the tables are unoccupied. There's a drunkard at the bar flashing coin. A couple of Charls's men on low wooden benches, drinking their wages. 

There's a pet and his master at the best table, right beside the fire, except they aren't a pet and his master at all.

Nicaise recognises the sapphire earring first and the rest falls into place. Blond hair. Expensive clothes. The Akielon in Veretian dress, looking civilised. Looking like the cat that got the cream while the Prince curls around his over-sized body, while they breathe the same air. The earring glints in the fire light and Nicaise feels a raw pain in his chest.

That's his fucking earring. That's his prince.

Logically, he knows Laurent is not his but the flash of anger and jealousy aches all the same. Nicaise has done so much to help him and there he is, playing pet and liking it, in the bar of a sleazy inn. He's letting the Akielon so close to him. He's being louche and degenerate and not taking his duty seriously, just like the Regent said he would.

In that moment, when Laurent stands and leads that Damen up the stairs, Nicaise has never hated anyone more.  
-


	3. set

It's hard to breathe. Invisible manacles wrap around his wrists, his ankles, his lungs and for a moment, he's back on his stomach in the Regent's lavish bed. Hot tears burn behind his eyes. It wasn't meant to happen like this. The Prince isn't meant to be like that, sensual in the light of the fire. He's meant to be cold as ice. 

Nicaise is meant to be a hero. Instead, he's stuck in an alley beside a scuzzy inn and no-one, not even the soldiers, are looking for him at all. 

The letter, hidden, always hidden, in his clothing itches through Charls' fine fabric to Nicaise's skin. He has the momentary urge to tear the thing to shreds, then stops himself. He's not a child any more. He's going to make himself a hero. He's going to rub the damn thing in Laurent's face.

It strikes Nicaise that it might be fun to burst into the prince's room and catch him...doing whatever it is he is doing. Not fucking, that's for sure. The intimacy Nicaise saw through the window was for show and nothing more. The Ice Prince of Vere isn't going to get felt up in an inn after all these years of cultivating privacy like the gardeners in the gardens in Arles tended roses. 

Unless that's his thing. Games. Disguises. Role play. Nicaise knows men have all sorts of weird and often gross sexual preferences. But he doesn't think Laurent falls into any of those categories, so he waits, and when a man exits the inn clutching something beneath his cloak as tightly as Nicaise held the letter when he left Arles, things fall into place. The prince is scheming, of course. 

Not long after, the Akielon slave emerges from the inn. He stands and breathes and looks up at the night sky. Definitely not fucking, then. Nicaise feels vindicated. He considers approaching that Damen, but then he remembers that the slave is beneath him in rank and status no matter how much he dresses up in Veretian finery. 

Nicaise will wait for Laurent. 

But from his vantage point in the alley, he sees soldiers that Damen does not see. He thinks about calling to him but hides instead. Red soldiers might recognise Nicaise. They might approach Damen. The Regent did try to get him on side before, but the slave was too stupid (or perhaps too smart) to take him up on his offer. 

But Damen goes back inside and the soldiers turn left and from his place behind the empty kegs, Nicaise gleans they are in pursuit of the man who already left the inn. Nicaise is loyal. He bursts out from behind the kegs, reminding his trembling brain that he looks like an urchin and he's not beautiful any more, and points the soldiers in the opposite direction.

He means to go back inside, to seek out the house boy or just his own narrow pallet in the communal room, but his ankles are bound by fear again. He can't move. The alley is safer. You can run in an alley. You can't get trapped. There are more soldiers, streaming past him like he is nothing, and they eventually realise that they should search the inn.

They troop in, rousing people from their sleep, searching for the prince and Nicaise has no way to help. He dashes across the road, away from the chaos, and sees the prince and his slave hiding on a balcony. They jump across to the room the houseboy uses, the slave hauling the prince the last inch like he's a sack of grain, and a new fear jumps into Nicaise's throat that the boy who might be a friend will be implicated. He can't see much but then the door is opening and the prince is pressed up against the slave as if he doesn't mind touching. He's shaking.

Laurent is laughing.

He never laughs. 

Nicaise cannot believe what he is seeing as the prince and his slave climb up to the roof and start running. His own legs are moving before he can think, and he's following over the cobbles, watching them evade the pursuers, then lure them in again with tiles and clothing that catches in the wind like silk kites. There's a sense of joy, somehow, that twists at Nicaise's heart. 

Nicaise sees no reason not to smash a flower pot and divert some attention away from them. He slams a gate, too, and then he loses the prince and the slave in his efforts to remain hidden and the soldiers are still swarming and he has nothing to do but return to the inn.

Where he finds Charls, concerned, even though Nicaise assures him he was just gone for fresh water when all the commotion happens. There's been chaos. Utter chaos. Soldiers and spies and who knows what else. Why Charls even gave away his best horse to aid the cause. And isn't Nicaise lucky the soldiers didn't come across him? With his blue eyes and regal bearing he might have been mistaken for the prince like the houseboy was.

Nicaise waits a long time before the houseboy is free. The interruption did not ruin the mood for the drunkard Volo. As a man who knew he may not afford such luxury again, he made sure to get his money's worth. Dawn has broken by the time Nicaise finds him. Charls hasn't given him any instructions for the day (mostly because he's waiting to see about his horse and the commotion with the prince last night.)

“I'll pay you to help me go to the prince's camp,” Nicaise says, when the houseboy is finished sluicing away the night before from his body.

“No,” the boy replies. “I'll take you for free.”

Nicaise is glad to have company on the long road out of town. He's a city boy. The woods and isolation put him on edge. He listens, half-listens really, while the boy talks about the prince disguising himself in the inn (and being very bad at cards and coin tricks.) 

“What was the disguise?” Nicaise asks, because he has to say something. It's called being polite and he's practising at it daily.

“An earring,” the boy said. “Like one of those pampered pets.” He shudders. “What a life.”

“Better than a whore,” Nicaise says.

“If you don't value freedom.” The boy plucks a daisy from the hedgerows and picks away the petals. "I was right, by the way. Your namesake isn't even that handsome. Not like you." 

The boy throws the naked daisy away. Nicaise's newfound politeness doesn't stretch far enough to be able to respond to that compliment. Anyway, it's really hot all of a sudden and he fans some air in front of his face to cool down. 

When they reach the outskirts of the camp, Nicaise hears the sound of swords clashing and instinct makes him push the boy behind a tree. He's suffered enough for one night. Day. Nicaise keeps missing sleep. It's new, and it makes him feel like a grown up (but it also makes him cranky.)

“There's fighting,” the boy says.

“Yes, that is obvious,” Nicaise replies. “Go back to the inn.”

“Come with me.”

“No,” says Nicaise, though he really wants to run. The thing is, he's reached his destination. He has to hope Laurent got here first or that there are enough loyal men in his guard to still help Nicaise now. He can't turn back. What was the point in any of this if he turns back now? “Go back,” he says, again, and he's neither surprised nor disappointed when the boy flees.

He pushes though the thick, dark woods. The trees block out the sun. 

He's not afraid.

(He's terrified.)

-

It's just occurred to Nicaise that the Regent sent Govart with the prince. Govart, who rapes boys and fucks women and hurts anyone he can. Govart, who had in his possession the letter Nicaise stole until Nicaise stole it.

If he encounters Govart first....

No. He stops himself. That's not what's going to happen. He's going to make things better.

There's clearly some kind of skirmish happening within the camp, which, well isn't surprising considering the prince has left it without supervision to play games with his slave. Nicaise sticks to the trees, waiting, figuring he looks different enough not to be recognised and most men here won't kill a boy on first sight.

A groaning reaches his ears, different to the shouting and metal clashing in the camp proper. He means to ignore it but his feet carry him in its direction.

“Orlant,” Nicaise says, when he sees the bleeding man on the ground. His wounds are messy and most likely fatal. Even a boy like Nicaise can tell they were sloppily done. Good soldiers kill fast. “I--”

“Is he here?”

“Who?”

“Your master.” It takes a long time to get the words out.

“No. I ran away ages ago,” Nicaise says, puffing up his chest. “He --”

“It was him. All him,” Orlant says. “Aimeric...tell the prince, tell Jord.” 

“Tell him what?”

“About Aimeric.” Orlant closes his eyes. Nicaise thinks he's about to see his first death but Orlant opens them again. “Don't be him.”

These words must be important, if there the last things Orlant chooses to say. All Nicaise can think is that he doesn't want to grow up to be the kind of person who says things like that before they die. Politics and betrayal are part of life for royals and nobles, but low born people should think of loved ones before they die. Nicaise wants that. He wants to be able to remember light-headed feelings he hasn't had yet. 

In the camp, the noises are dying down. Control is coming back and he can only hope that the right people have taken charge. Voices return to the trees, some fleeing, and then a familiar one – the other guard Jord calling Orlant's name. That's when Nicaise realises Orlant has stopped breathing and that he is holding a cold hand he can't remember reaching for in the first place.

“Here!” Nicaise calls. The prince's guards are good. It has to still be that they are good. He doesn't remove his hand from Orlant, partly because he thinks it will make him look good and mostly because he wants to be good. Maybe Jord and Orlant are lovers. Two guards alone together while the frigid prince hides behind thick doors. Maybe Jord will wail. 

But all that happens is Jord skids to a stop, blinks, and lets out a heavy breath.

Nicaise makes himself stand tall.

“Are you loyal to the prince?” he asks. “Remember, you're not important enough to lie to me.”

Jord lets out another heavy breath. “Let's get you somewhere safe,” he says.

-

Nicaise is deposited in what he assumes to be Laurent's own tent. He's slightly relieved to be away from the carnage. But he's also annoyed, after these weeks fending for himself, to be left out of the action.

“I'm not a child,” he protests, as mid-day sun lights up the blood on the ground. 

“I am glad to hear you finally admit that.” The voice, when Nicaise hears it, is like thinking you're going to slip in sun-warmed pool of water and plunging into an icy winter lake instead. The prince returned is a force to be reckoned with. The night of chasing, the disobedience in his camp, the presence of Nicaise here would rattle anyone else but the prince appears beside Nicaise as unflappable as ever. “If you're saying it,” Laurent continues. “Then I suppose my uncle has discarded you for your age.”

“No,” says Nicaise. “I could have kept him hanging on a while longer if I wanted to.”

“You'd rather throw in your lot with me?” There's a slight widening to his eyes, (which, really, aren't that special) and a brief softness to his mouth. “That's not very clever. I don't have good luck in that department.”

“He was going to kill me.”

“And I was the better option.”

“He was going to kill me,” Nicaise says, again, putting his shaking hand inside his clothing to retrieve the letter. “Because I argued for you. Because I defended you. But if he knew I had stolen this from his prize thug, he would have executed me on the spot.”

He's painfully aware that he is handing over his last piece of leverage. But it's the right thing to do.

The prince's fingers are so delicate, that he can unfurl the yellowed paper with ease. Every time Nicaise touched it he thought his fat thumbs would push right through the paper. He can't even imagine Govart picking it up without tearing it so shreds.

“Govart is long gone,” Laurent says, as if he's reading Nicaise's mind. “I turned him off at the first opportunity. My uncle doesn't know. If he finds out, I’ll know you have betrayed me.”

“You should have killed him.”

“I ran him through with my sword, if that's any consolation.”

Nicaise remembers that the man made sport of tormenting him. That he raped that lamb of a slave boy. That he volunteered to guard the Regent's rooms the first night Nicaise was brought there and many more after that. 

Laurent continues. “I would have killed him but I thought he had something on my uncle.”

“That was the something,” Nicaise says, as Laurent scans the letter. Laurent is clever, educated, and he scans the whole thing in the length of time it would take Nicaise to sound out one word. Learning to read is not exactly a priority in pet-training. The masters don't like them to be educated. 

Nicaise isn't stupid. He just never bothered learning. He could, if he wanted. And he recognised enough words to know that it was a serious letter about serious things.

Laurent swears, once, and then he looks like he might break something. Nicaise has seen the prince react before but never has he seen him look like he might smash the nearest breakable object. 

“This isn't a trick?” he demands.

“I would never --” Nicaise stops. “I won't ever again. I did this all myself,” he says. “No-one knows, not even him. I--”

“Nicaise, do you know what this says?”

Nicaise won't answer.

“When I am King,” Laurent continues. “You will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.” A pretty promise, like the one he made Nicaise before. The prince can't give Nicaise what he really wants. 

“What does it say for you to look excited for once?” Nicaise asks.

“It says that my uncle is exactly who we know him to be,” Laurent replies. “It says I'm going to win.”

-

Now that the camp is back under control (according to Jord, it would have been worse if they hadn't been working so hard under the prince's leadership), the prince takes a moment to change his clothes. Nicaise stays because he doesn't care if men are naked around him and he smells burning flesh through the expensive tent fabric and he does not want to see burning bodies. Anyway, he kind of wants to see for himself is he was wrong about the prince having his thing cut off. 

“I can help, since your slave escaped again,” Nicaise offers.

“He's not very good at escaping,” Laurent says, with a tiny smile on his lips. “I sent him away.”

“Will he return?”

“I can manage myself.”

“I'll still help.” Nicaise knows well how to untie the complicated laces. He does what comes automatically, and Laurent bats him away.

“It's not a performance,” he snaps.

Nicaise steels himself. “You smell like a cheap--”

“Don't finish that sentence.”

“He would lose his mind if he knew you were in a brothel,” Nicaise says, shaking out the jacket Laurent shed just for something to do. 

“I know.” Another little smile.

“I was in a brothel when I first got away. Well, after the tailor tried to keep me and --”

“Start at the beginning.” Laurent changes into another severe outfit and Nicaise tells him all that has happened since he left the palace. “I knew I liked you for a reason,” Laurent says, when Nicaise is finished.

“Are you going to punish the physician for not listening to me?”

“Tell me again what he said.”

“That I should keep my nose out. Or clean, I can't remember. He said I was right to be afraid but if I just waited --”

“You can chastise him all you want,” Laurent says. “But go easy. I'm going to have him set your nose. How much pain you wish to endure is up to you.”

A lump grows in Nicaise's throat. He really does want to be attractive again.

“I recognised his name,” he says. “I can read that much.”

“You need to learn more than names,” Laurent says.

“Thank you, I know that.”

-

Nicaise has waited a long time for these private moments with the prince. He missed the bladed conversations. He's been dying to be back around some real luxury. So, if he had his way, he would have stayed in the prince's tent for as long as possible.

But once Laurent has changed his clothes and done that thing where he builds walls around himself just by the way he holds himself, it's back to the business of being a leader. Nicaise lingers in the entryway of the tent as the prince emerges, and he sees what the men see – a bright, fearsome leader who will make all this bother worth it. 

He sees, too, the tiny moment where Laurent's carefully constructed walls briefly shake, as something catches his eye across the camp. Nicaise can't miss the cause of the tiny quake – the Akielon slave is so big you would see him from the top of a mountain.

Laurent snaps back to his usual, impenetrable self and throws a smile that's more like a smirk in Nicaise's direction.

“See?” He says. “Every dog can be brought to heel.”

But the words ring false. Nicaise thinks about what he saw in the inn, the lively boyish men running over rooftops and the fact that this slave keeps make the prince hesitate. He did it the first time they met, the Regent said. He did it now. He probably did it one hundred different times that Nicaise didn't witness.

And Nicaise hates the prince all over again. 

-

Old people are boring. They leave Nicaise in the tent while they argue about tactics and they talk about camps and mercenaries like they are the most interesting thing in the world. They also decided Paschal is needed urgently with wounded soldiers and he cannot set Nicaise's nose just yet.

“Not a word about the letter,” Laurent warns, and then Nicaise is in the company of the Akielon again and they are readying themselves to leave camp.

“It is a co-incidence,” the slave says, as bold as if he is not a slave at all. “That your uncle's pet turns up right after his thug gets turned off.”

Nicaise smiles at the slave – Damen – so brightly it makes him uncomfortable. He never should have shown that he won't hurt Nicaise. It's a weakness in Vere. Nicaise imagines it's a weakness in Akielos too and that's how the idiot wound up here.

“Will you pass me a fork?” Nicaise asks, sweetly, and the prince looks at him with absurd fondness. Nicaise did not think Laurent could look at anyone like that and that Damen is too busy biting down responses to notice.

“I trust him on this matter,” Laurent says. 

“You switched sides?” Damen asks. Nicaise cannot suppress the burn in his belly. He hasn't felt it it a while. Nicaise had believed he was no longer capable of shame. At court, the last time the prince and his slave saw him, Nicaise had been firmly on the side of the Regent. 

“I am my own side,” Nicaise snaps. 

“It's not safe.” Damen tries another tactic. The prince will take less kindly to any attempt at manipulation than he did to the difference of opinion about Nicaise's reason for being there. “He's just a boy.”

“Nicaise hasn't been a boy for a very long time.”

Damen fixes a long stare in Nicaise's direction. “You don't really believe that.”

“I was his age at Marlas,” Laurent says. “Boys have to see battles before they can fight them.” That shuts the slave up like a slap would. Interesting. “And we don't know who might intercept him back at the town. I am aware of the risks, thank you.” That shuts Nicaise up.

They decide Nicaise will be relegated to a wagon while the troop rides out. The details are not clear and he is too afraid to press for details.

“He goes with the Akielons party,” Laurent says.

“I --” Nicaise begins. 

“I cannot babysit him,” Damen says. 

“My uncle would expect him to stay with me. Therefore, he goes with you. That is final.” Laurent turns and leaves. Nicaise looks expectantly at Damen. Although he is no stranger to climbing in and out of wagons now, there is still the small matter of rank. 

“Assist me,” Nicaise says.

Damen picks him up and deposits him in the nearest wagon. Nicaise feels like a foolish sack of potatoes. He wonders if life with Charls wasn't all that bad. Then, they are riding out. Damen's got a smaller group and Nicaise fears mutiny. He fears discovery and battle and the stupid adults didn't even give him a dagger with which to defend himself. The wagon rattles over stony roads and hooves clatter and the soldiers speak in soldier-speak that might as well be a foreign language to Nicaise.

It is dark. There's going to be fighting. Nicaise thinks about the boy who took him to the bakery. He thinks about chasing that laughing feeling and how that doesn't feel very likely at this moment. It's dark and he can feel the air of tension among the troop. They've been sent with the slave and he throws around his borrowed authority like he owns it. They're all relying on a foreign slave and this may well be a suicide mission.

It's dark and they grind to a halt. There's shouting. The slave is shouting and there's the ground shakes, first with hooves and then with rocks and Nicaise cannot see but he can hear and he can feel and he thinks that this is it. He escaped the Regent for this. That the death meant for the prince will come to him and he thinks that it's a good thing he managed to give Laurent the letter and then there's nothing to think because _this is it_.

Then the wagon door is opening. No, it's ripped right off the hinges and the big, stupid Akielon slave is shielding Nicaise's body and pulling him to safety and they watch, panting, from the treeline while rocks bury their path. There's so much dust Nicaise can only cough when he wants to spit venom. He cannot fight the stinging that makes his eyes water. Trapped, again, he cannot do anything at all.

Then the dust is clearing. The men are looking around like they cannot believe what happened. They are looking at Nicaise and Damen like they cannot believe the fact of them. It's a new way of looking at people, Nicaise realises. He is used to being admired for his looks. The soldiers look at the slave from the enemy country with unbridled admiration for his bravery, the quick thinking that saved all their lives.

And Damen just absorbs it as if it's how people always look at him.

“In the palace,” Nicaise rasps. “The prince made you crawl.”

Damen either does not hear him or chooses to ignore him. He swings onto a horse, shoves Nicaise into the care of an outrider, and then this portion of the troop are charging back to the prince, back to battle, which they win.

Soldiers are weird. Death makes them happy. Nicaise can practically taste the joy in the air, intermingled with blood and smoke. They still have wine, which they drink liberally, and once the physician finishes tending the wounded men he is instructed to set Nicaise's nose.

“You're a brave boy,” Paschal says to Nicaise. 

“I care nothing for what you have to say.”

“The prince says I was wrong to dismiss you when you looked for my help at the palace. For that, I am sorry.” Pashcal looks around, then bids Damen over to shine the lamp on Nicaise's face. “The prince also says you would be dead if I had.”

“Don't even think about spitting,” Damen says.

“I'm not going to thank you for saving me. It won't curry you favour with the prince either.”

“Ever had your nose set before?”

“No.”

A satisfied smile passes over the slave's face. Paschal touches Nicaise's face. Soon, he realises why the slave looked so smug.

No-one told Nicaise how much having his nose set would hurt. It's worse than the first time, worse than most all the physical pains he has endured, and he hates the whole world all over again. He curses, hisses, seethes. Later, after having taken some pain relief, he stumbles on shaky legs to the prince's tent.

The slave is asleep on a palette in the corner.

“He enjoyed me getting hurt,” Nicaise says, and it's meant to be warning though for what he cannot say. Perhaps just at the fact of the slave in the corner and the prince strolling about as if that was acceptable. The same slave Laurent had whipped all the way to death's door. The same slave who had every reason to hate the prince, and still worked to help his cause. 

“You were abominable to him in Arles.”

“So were you. Everyone is awful there. But you were cruel beyond anything I have seen.”

“Anything? Really? What about --”

“He saved your life tonight,” Laurent says. “He gave us this win against my uncle. We would not have it otherwise.” 

Nicaise considers this. “Are you letting him fuck you? The men at court said you were distracted by your first taste of cock.”

“My first taste of cock,” Laurent repeats, as if this is amusing. “What do you think about that?”

“You hate Akielons,” Nicaise says. He's thinking of the tension in the inn, the strange vibrancy of the rooftops, and the quality of the gaze they shared when the slave came back. They're not fucking. But, despite what Laurent says, none of this is the bond of a master and an obedient slave. Damen is not obedient. Laurent masters only himself. “But this one is an asset.”

“See? You are clever.”

“I know I'm clever.” Nicaise sneers, then winces, because all facial movement hurts his bandaged nose. “You really sleep with him in the tent.”

“Yes,” Laurent says. “He takes up all the palette. You can share the bed, no strings, obviously. Unless you would rather go out among the soldiers.”

“Don't touch me,” Nicaise warns.

“Likewise,” says Laurent. Then, later, when there's the strangeness of shared bedcovers. “You cannot stay. It is not safe.”

“Nowhere is safe.”

Laurent replies, "We're safe here, tonight." Nicaise can't help think that's because of Damen asleep in the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, guys!


	4. esteem

Nicaise sleeps well. He is loathe to wake, to end this brief moment of peace. But the Prince has more important things to do than coddle a boy like Nicaise. He is already dressed in riding leathers when Nicaise stirs. He is talking to the slave, his tone almost friendly, until they both become aware of their audience.

Damen is still on his palette. He's got a thin blanket pulled up to his rib cage and Nicaise can see the outline of his muscular thighs spread open, ankles crossed. He's not looking. It's just that the slave has so much skin and muscles it's impossible not too see. It was unfair that a human man could look like that. Disgusting, really. 

(Really.)

He wonders if Damen wakes up hard. Men do, a lot. He wonders what it would look like, then he feels himself, wondering and then he makes himself remember that he hates everyone.

(It does not occur to him to think about Laurent like that. It would be like thinking about a brother.)

“How's your nose?” Damen asks.

“Healing,” Nicaise says. “How's your back?”

“Healed,” says Damen, and goes about his duties. The scars are barely healed, Nicaise can see. He sees Laurent notice that, too.

“You are going back to Charls,” Laurent announces. “You both hold the man in good esteem so -- Nicaise, do not look at me like that. I am your prince. You're going back. You're going to be safe. You're going to learn things and when this is over...”

“You'll come for me.”

“You will be looked after,” Laurent says. “Now, get moving. We have work to do. I won't have time to say goodbye.”

“I won't --” Nicaise stops. He doesn't know what else to say. “I won't forget how much you owe me.”

Laurent nearly smiles. “Neither will I.”

\- 

Like livestock who went roaming, Nicaise is deposited back to a very perplexed Charls. This time, he has status, a lengthy list of instructions from the prince and heavy bag of coin to cover Nicaise's expenses. 

(There's also something about a horse. Nicaise doesn't listen much to things that aren't about him.)

The truth of his identity is still concealed. The story is simply that Laurent wishes to reward the boy for helping him, but considering the tense political situation this is the safest option. Charls takes royal duty very seriously. A flash of a royal seal is all it takes for Nicaise to be bumped up the pecking order. He doesn't complain about the improved status but, well, sometimes he misses the character he was cultivating. He liked running around with the house boy. He liked that the men in Charls employ acted like he wasn't there. 

Charls is a good man who takes duty seriously. He stresses and shows again and again that he is loyal to the prince. He obeys. He guards Nicaise. He personally takes on the responsibility of Nicaise's schooling until Nicaise gets frustrated about his own mistakes and throws the inkwell at a wall. There's no punishment for the outburst (even though some splatters hit some very expensive fabric) but there is a change to their routine.

They travel. They sell things. Nicaise practises reading and writing in his own time. In one inn, he pays a serving boy to do his composition for him but Charls and Guilame realise the ruse immediately. Nicaise has awful writing. He tries to make his letters loopy but they just look like the spirals of a ranting madman. And that's before you consider the spelling. The order he sees in his head is nothing like the order they appear on the page. 

Stupid people are only lucky if they don't know they're stupid.

Then Charls says, “We'll take a break.” And Nicaise trails him while he does the business of being a merchant. This, Nicaise is good at. He remembers spoken orders perfectly. He cuts lengths and bolts with precision. He sees the best ways to pair colours and patterns. 

And he's still very good at making people want things.

“In another life,” he says. “I would be an excellent salesperson.”

“You're doing a pretty good job of it in this life, Laurent,” Charls replies. 

Everywhere they go, Nicaise keeps his ear to the ground for word of the prince. Rumours fly, most of them old or false, and Nicaise learns early how to separate what comes from the Regent's camp and what comes from Laurent's supporters. His heart beats faster when any mention of the royal family comes up, and considering the climate it comes up quite a lot.

Oh, the Regent is so wise. He keeps his nephew in hand and Kastor of Akielos is completely under his thrall. No, he's power hungry. The nephew is fair. He's vicious, he once destroyed his favourite horse to beat Torveld of Patras to the mark. He's going to lead Vere to glory once again. Why, he defeated thirty Vaskian clansman with just a dumb slave for company. No, he's petty and incestuous and cowardly and he'll ruin them all. 

Nicaise listens, too, for mention of his own name or a search for a disobedient pet. He's both relieved and disappointed to hear nothing. It's hard not to be important any more. But he adapts to life with a travelling merchant. In truth, he's always been adaptable.

-

They cross the border, where everything is different. A length of road is all takes for the world to change. The people have darker skin and sturdier accents. They wear skimpy clothes and even unshockable Nicaise struggles with where to put his eyes. There's so much flesh on show, his own flesh reacts. The rumours are different here, too. There's certainly leftover loyalty to Vere, specifically the starburst, and that makes Nicaise a little bit proud on Laurent's behalf. Several people react well to his assumed name. But, mostly, people talk about the unstable political situation. It's not been long since this region was war torn and the people are fearful. Border raids grow more frequent and that makes them jumpy. It's only Charls esteemed reputation that stops the Veretians being met with outright disdain. 

Nicaise listens to all the gossip he can and because he is small, and not quite as spectacularly attractive as he once was, he manages to eavesdrop quite a lot. A small squadron of Akielon guards under the influence of some local liquor talk their hearts out in the back of one inn and Nicaise hears it all before they shoo him away. 

The border raids could cause a full blown war between Vere and Akielos if the local lords have their way. From what they can tell, from the soldier they captured, the Regent wouldn't mind one bit if that happens. Anything to strengthen his campaign against Akielos. 

That's only the tip of the iceberg. There's talk of the nephew and uncle going to war for his throne. There's talk of their kyros supporting his claim, going against King Kastor who supports the uncle. There's talk (whispers, really,) that Kastor's ascension was as illegitimate as his birth. The northern provinces might defect. Nikandros of Delpha hasn't been at Marlas in weeks.

Politics are boring and most of it goes in one of Nicaise's ear and out the other. But he listens. He thinks that when he sees Laurent again, he wants to be able to keep up.

In Delfeur, taxes on Veretian cloth are exorbitant. They are are great source of dismay for Charls. Don't even get him started on Kemptian silk. Furthermore, with the taste of war thick in the air, there may not be another trading expedition for a while. He needs to make these sales count. So when he sets off for a meeting with a major distributor just south of the border, Charls brings a full arsenal.

Nicaise is primped and polished with an attention to detail he hasn't experienced since Arles. He neither likes nor dislikes it. When he looks in the polished glass afterwards, to see his reflection, it's like looking at a stranger. His hair is shorter. His jaw looks different. There's a pimple under his jaw. His clothes are nothing like has worn before. Thankfully, a chiton was not required but the trousers and jacket are both simpler and fancier than the lavish costumes of court.

“Well?” Guilame admires his handiwork.

“Adequate,” Nicaise replies, and smiles. Unlike the last feast he attended with Charls, this one feels rougher around the edges. There aren't any elegant nobility or simpering servants. There are quiet slaves, nothing like the boys and girls Nicaise tormented in Arles. There are plain-speaking men, who make a living from bargaining with men like Charls and selling on the spoils of commercial victory. 

There are piles of fruit in clay bowls but they are past ripe, the spoils of a forgotten harvest, bruised from age and long journeys from the south of Akielos.

Again, there is a lot of skin and Nicaise doesn't know where to look. He contemplates one bowl of fruit, wondering what exactly is the difference between a peach and a nectarine. In Arles, they generally were brought peeled and sliced to a banquet table or breakfast solar in the Regent's rooms. When he's better at reading, he's going to look that kind of thing up. The prince has heaps of books. He'll have to give Nicaise some, considering how much he has done for him.

There's lots of Akielon which he doesn't understand. And when he hears Veretian, it's so basic and mangled he can hardly makes sense of it. But numbers are universal. Bargaining is obvious in any language. And the lingering looks Nicaise receives mean the same thing in any language. There's a quality to the gazes that are less to do with the clothing on his back and more about wanting to get him on his back. 

Not for the first time since they crossed the border, Nicaise thinks of Damen the Akielon slave. In Arles, he was so adamant that he would never touch a boy. He made it seem like no-one in Akielos would and made Nicaise think the people here weren't quite as barbaric as the prince believed. After all, everyone knew Laurent was still eaten up with grief for his late brother. It clouded things. It twisted him. 

But the slave misled Nicaise. There were men here who would certainly make use of Nicaise's body given the chance. A glance in a shallow, polished silver cup makes his own insides twist. If he looked different...

“Come here, Laurent.” Charls beckons Nicaise over to where he is sitting with the wealthiest man in the room. If Nicaise has learned anything these weeks with Charls, it's how to accurately discern wealth. He can still assess jewels at a hundred paces and watch for the way men dress their pets, slaves and servants to gleam their status. But there's more to see now, and it's mostly got to do with the kind of cloth they wrap around their bodies and the softness of the leather on their feet. 

“Yes?” Nicaise says, softly. He adapts old habits – high voice and lowered eyes – to make himself more likely to recieve a tender reception. 

“This is Odius,” Charls says. “He's got several households and inns in the area. He also provides uniforms to many of the great houses throughout the region.” Meaning he's rich so be good.

“Hello,” Nicaise says. 

Odius responds with one of those spine-chilling lingering looks.

“This good man would like to see the embossed white cotton close up. Bolt fifty four, to speak in industry terms. If it's not too much trouble could you show him your shirt?” 

Nicaise nods. He reaches for his collar but Charls takes hold of his wrist and unlaces the cuff there to his elbow. Obediently, Nicaise holds his arm out for Odius. He is proud of himself when he does not shudder when the man fingers the fabric. There's hair on his knuckles and leer on his face. Nicaise had thought some of his skills at suppressing reaction may have waned since his time as a pet. But old habits die hard and he is perfectly serene during the inspection. 

“Not bad,” says Odius.

“You will find no higher quality fabric at that pricepoint in four kingdoms,” Charls says, indignant. 

“It's difficult to tell from such a small sample.” Odius takes a sip of pungent red wine. “Perhaps your assistant could show me more? I am very interested in this particular --” A smile aimed at Nicaise. “Fabric.”

“Guilame can fetch more from our supplies.”

“No.” Odius touches Nicaise's forearm again. “This assistant.”

“He is Veretian like me,” Charls says. His teeth are gritted behind his smile. “We are a modest culture, as you know. He would not like to show so much underclothing in such a public setting.”

“Privately, then.” 

Nicaise retreats. Oh, he is still standing in the smoky room. His feet are planted firmly on the floor. His expression is even. Perhaps even eager. Old habits die hard. He is Laurent, merchant apprentice. He is not himself. The boy Nicaise is hidden behind walls of Veretian steel. 

A voice says, “As you wish,” and it is his but more becoming. He can do this. He can do anything. 

“That is not necessary,” says Charls. “Guilame can be here with a bolt in no time.”

“This is quicker,” Nicaise says. “I do not mind.”

“You understand,” says Odius, and his clammy fingers inch up Nicaise's forearm. They dip under the sleeve and cup his elbow. Like an insect. A sea monster. A disease. “That I am very interested in ordering this fabric in large quantities. It would be most profitable for you, Charls.”

“I understand perfectly well.” Charls puts his hand on Nicaise's shoulder and tugs him away. “This is not how I do business. If you are still interested tomorrow, my actual assistant will make an appointment with our sample book. Come, Laurent, we must take our leave.”

Charls waits until they are outside, in the crisp night air, waiting for the wagons to re-tie Nicaise's sleeve.

“I'm not a child,” Nicaise says. “I don't mind --”

“The Prince of Vere did not trust me with the care of you for me to send you to the bed of a man like that. I am to --”

“He --” Nicaise was about to say that it had never bothered the prince of Vere before what bed Nicaise lay in but that neither appropriate nor true. “Did not have a bed there. That man. Anyway, it would have gotten you that deal. It is business.”

“I am in the business of cloth, not sexual favours,” Charls snaps. His cheeks go a little red at the word sexual which strikes Nicaise as sad and funny all at once. “I do not conduct business like that.”

“Even if --”

“You are fourteen. You could be the my enemy and I would not,” Charls said. “The wagon is here.”

“Oh,” says Nicaise. “Well, don't expect me to thank you.”

“I do not.” Charls lumbs into the back of the wagon. Nicaise never wants to be so old as to move like that. “But you can, in your own time, thank me for the training and protection.”

There's a peach in the fold of Nicaise's jacket. He wasn't comfortable enough to eat it inside with those leering men. He takes it out, takes a bite, and it's so sweet he smiles.

-

Charls is anxious to press on through Northern Akielos and make as many sales as possible in as short a time as possible. There is so much political tension, it seems likely this will be his last trading trip for a while.

“There won't be a war,” Nicaise says, confidently, after Charls relented and allowed him a second glass of wine. It's easier to sleep, after a second glass of wine. And he would have been just as confident without the alcohol. After all, he personally delivered proof of the Regent's treachery into the Prince's hand. 

“Troops are gathering,” Guilame says. “On both sides. It seems inevitable.” 

“The prince is a peaceful sort,” Nicaise insists. The men look sceptical. “He will fight with words and smarts,” Nicaise continues and the men look more convinced. 

“Our prince will sit on the throne soon,” Charls says. “Hopefully he will reign in peace.”

“If he ever gets there,” says Guilame.

“If the Akielons don't invade. One cannot keep up with the antics down there,” adds another man.

“It seems to me,” says Guilame, “That the royals are so busy having family feuds they don't think about what it will do the common people.”

No-one argues. Not even Nicaise. They leave before dawn. Charls generally prefers to eat and lodge in respectable establishments but the early start and unusually high traffic in the inns (what with all those soldiers and officials on the move) they break for lunch at the side of the road. 

Nicaise helps with the food, while Guilame cheerily informs him that there are also spies in every inn working for every imaginable faction of the royal conflict. You never know, according to him, who is actually a close trusted ally of princes and kings.

They eat and Nicaise doesn't complain about the food. Maturity. It's happening. He's proud.

The meal is almost over when the merchant caravan is approached by a sweat-wet, panting messenger bearing no particular royal insignia. He could be anyone's man and Nicaise feels the pace of his heart increase.

He begs for some water and Charls being Charls, obliges. The boy is sorry, he says, for his rudeness but he has been on the move since the previous night. He has urgent news from the border.

“Don't leave us in suspense,” says Nicaise. 

“I have it direct from the battle,” the boy says. “He lives. Damianos lives. The King's son lives.”

Ripples of shock and excitement make their way around the campfire. The men are right to be shocked. If that Damianos really is alive, then he is the true heir to the throne. As Laurent is in Vere. But the Regent supports Kastor and if ... Nicaise stops himself.

“What battle?” he demands. “There should not have been a battle.”

“Hush,” says Charls. “Let the boy tell us.”

The boy tells them so much Nicaise struggles to keep up. It started with a raid in a border village and moved onto a confrontation between border lords and the Prince. Touars and Guion, on the Regent's orders, wished to take the Prince into their custody and deliver him to his uncle for a fair trial. But the Prince refused. He would not sacrifice his men.

“Of course not,” says Charls. “He seeks to protect all his people.”

“Surely the lords would simply absorb the soldiers into their own troops,” Guilame says. 

Nicaise thinks that sounds about right. 

“Not all of them,” the boy continues. He heard it from a witness. The slaves would be killed. 

“The Prince doesn't keep slaves.”

“Just one,” says Nicaise. His mind is turning like a spinning top. Damianos is alive. The Prince has one slave. The Regent, he remembers, had a concerted interest in Kastor's gift to his nephew. He took the news of his arrival from his chamber door and then pushed Nicaise onto the bed. 

Nicaise's words are lost among the telling of the story. The boy says, there was a battle at Hellay. Troops came from Patras to support the Prince and he was victorious. He holds Ravenel. Lord Touars is dead.

A pause.

Lord Touars is dead by the hand of Damianos of Akielos.

Damianos of Akielos, believed to be dead, captained the Prince's Guard and brought him victory. All of Vere knows it now. He opposes the Regent. The Prince-Killer killed another nobleman. Leaving behind another poor boy, this one only nine.

“What a tale,” says Charls. Meaning I do not believe it.

Nicaise feels weak. He doesn't understand how Laurent got caught up in a battle. Granted, he won but that is never guaranteed. He couldn't have known he had the prince killer as a slave. He ...

He absolutely would have known. Laurent is the smartest person Nicaise has ever met. His uncle sent him off with the one person he hates more than anyone, and Laurent found a way to turn his enemy into a weapon. The prince-killers' bloodthirsty rage on the battlefield is known all through the land. 

Nicaise's closes his eyes, and sees them running over moonlit rooftops. 

“It...” He stammers, and can't find any more words. He gave the prince what he needed to get the other important men on his side and they still fight him. The nobility will never forgive him for setting the prince killer against their own people. 

Nicaise remembers, then, while the men murmur reactions to this shocking news. He never got the chance to warn Laurent about that Aimeric. Guion's son. Guion who brokered the whole deal with the bastard king. 

Nicaise thought he helped but there was still a fight. He could have helped more and he was too busy thinking of himself to do it.

“There's more,” the boy says. He's enjoying this now. Nicaise does not enjoy hearing it. 

There was another battle, this one at Charcy. The prince-killer was once again succesful in vanquishing the Regent's troops. This time, he had the support of an Akielon army. He was asserting his claim to the throne in Akielos. 

Laurent of Vere and Damianos of Akielos had formed an alliance. They were coming south for Kastor and the Regent.

“No,” says Nicaise, and he's on his feet. His voice croaks. More than croaks, he loses have the word to a strange sound, uglier than a goose's honk. His face burns and he presses his lips tight in case any more errant squawks leap out. 

Despite the outburst, despite the gravity of the news, Nicaise's humiliation brings fond amusement to the rest of the men at the side of the road. 

“We've all been there,” says Guilame.

But Nicaise never wants to be like any of these people. 

“Time to move,” Charls says, sharper than usual. These are sharp times, full of dangerous corners. They are in Akielos, where most of the people are meant to be loyal to Kastor. It's all so wrong. The rightful kings are on the backfoot and their usurpers are sitting pretty. The Regent won't care about a couple of lost battles. He'll care about Laurent and he'll break him into one million pieces. If the slave and Damianos really are one and the same, there's no predicting what he may do. Nicaise already had trouble getting the slave who had his back ripped off by Laurent being the same person who gazed at him across a smouldering campsite. 

They move on and later hear that Nikandros of Delpha, fights with the Prince. They mean to restore Damianos to the throne. Nicaise feels a little bit easier about being a Veretian pet in Akielos. They feel the quiet exultation in the towns and villages. The true king of Akielos lives. 

Nicaise can only think about how he is a Veretian pet in Akielos. The Regent meant to kill him. He stole royal property. They drive their horses deeper into Akielos, where the Regent sits with the bastard king. Somewhere, Laurent is following with Damianos of Akielos beside him as an equal. He wonders what the people of this country would do if they knew Nicaise had spat in their true king's face. And stabbed him with a fork.


	5. bells

Nicaise is too young to remember the last war, the one where Auguste got killed. But he's old enough to know that war is a very big deal. Sure, it is spoken about. Sure, they start to see more soldiers on the road and are even stopped at a few checkpoints. But for the most part, sales continue and drinking continues and living continues.

Nicaise practises his reading but he's still better at numbers and best at patterns and shapes. It's a good distraction from worrying about what will become of the prince. He can't think at all of what will become of himself if the prince does not win. The Regent is a very smart man and Laurent's victories seem paltry, the more they hear of what is happening in the south of Akielos. If Laurent could not make the letter into a winning hand in Vere, then what hope does he have in Akielos? What is there to say that Damianos will not skewer Laurent like he did the brother in revenge for how Laurent treated him.

A pleasure slave. It's whispered in inns and markets. There are cuffs. No matter how Damianos spins it, the whole of Akielos feels the insult of their prince being used in such fashion. 

“I'm ninety-nine percent sure the prince would never lower himself like that,” Nicaise says, and he is both defending and insulting that Damianos further. “He hates the man, on account of him killing his brother.” Not thinking of the rooftop. Not thinking of the light, laughing feeling he's dying to try for himself. “Anyway, he's frigid. Everyone knows he doesn't fuck anyone.”

“If anyone could change his mind it's _Damianos-Exalted_ ,” comments another seller, and Charls gives Nicaise a look that tells him to stop talking. 

Nicaise obeys. They are here to sell cloth, not gossip. And Nicaise is good at making people want to buy things. It's more, now, than the way he wears Charls' wares on his body. In truth, his body is not as appealing as it once was. The original outfit Charls had made for him is gone short in the legs and tight in the back. His arms feel awkward, like no matter what way he moves them he'll bump them off something. (Maybe the thing between his legs, if there's no-one around.) That embarrassing voice issue has occurred a few more times. Nicaise is growing up.

But he is still himself, extra inches and sprouting hairs and new urges included. He has got intelligence and charisma. He's got an eye for beauty, even if he does not feel too beautiful himself at the moment. At Charls side, he can match fabrics and suggest ribbons and brocades that would work just perfectly. 

“Style,” Charls says, “Cannot be learned.” 

And Guilame sulks a little.

They press on. Business is brisk and Charls wonders about military contracts for fabric. Mostly, they need to be efficient because it feels more and more likely that there won't be too many cross border sales in the time to come. In Sicyon, which is loyal to Kastor, they are making their way to the next dot on the map when a great wave of soldiers and wagons come behind them like a stampede.

For a terrible moment, Nicaise has the idea that they are come for him. The Regent has found him. He's going to chop of his head and this time there won't be a sleeping draft to mask the fear. 

“Move,” says Charls and their caravan barely makes it off the path before these hurrying men thunder by. They are Akielons, brawny and strong. Even in this awful situation, dust in his eyes, Nicaise sees the muscle ripple under sun-baked skin. He sees it. There are banners, too, that Guilame identifies as that of Meniados, kyros of Sicyon.

“What does it mean?” Nicaise wonders, watching the cloud of dust that remains long after the group have pushed on.

“They are running,” Charls says. “From Damianos. He comes for them. But they are loyal to Kastor.”

“Let's rest a while,” Guilame says. “Give them a chance to move on before we hit the road again.”

They're all relieved to take a break and water the horses ahead of schedule. The idea remains – that a company of Damianos's men could be hurtling down the path after them and they could be caught in the crossfire. Rumours abound. Damianos sacked a village as a message to Kastor. Laurent has got massive Vaskian clanswomen in his army and their preferred fighting technique is to rip the testicles from men with their bare hands. Damianos and Laurent wear matching cuffs. They're lovers. They nearly killed each other at swords. Laurent nearly killed Damianos with a spear at during some quaint Akielon game.

That last one is the least believable. Under threat from two usurpers, who would stop to play games?

Nicaise can't keep up with truths or rumours. So he suggests that Charls fashions some kind of undergarment from offcuts of fabric and sell it to soldiers who want to protect themselves from Vaskian ball squeezers.

-

Inns are all the same. Except when they are behind gates and happen to house an entire batallion of Akielon soldiers, working in the name of Kastor their king. Nicaise sweats at the sight of them and his sweat smells these days so that's rather disgusting. Maturity. He sees now why he wanted to stay young.

(If he died, as the Regent planned, none of these changes would be happening. So maybe he should appreciate them more. If he had more privacy and better washing facilities, he probably would.)

The further south they travel, the hotter the temperatures rise. Afternoon sees them take shelter in a shadowy dining room in Mellos which, Nicaise supposes, is better than being under the beating sun. He doesn't mine the golden tan gradually appearing on his skin but, really, the freckles are becoming somewhat of a worry. 

He takes his time eating because he doesn't want Charls to send him away to work on his lessons just yet. He wants to stay and be part of the conversation like everyone else, even if the conversation does revolve around cloth and taxes. Chances are, it will circle around to the brewing war and the strange actions of the princes. If there is news, Nicaise does not want to miss it.

He half-listens, half occupies himself with outlandish fantasies for the future until a serving boy (who Nicaise's notices is a little bit attractive) (he notices everyone who is attractive these days. It _is_ true that the women in Akielos bare their breasts) fetches Charls on behalf of the innkeeper. 

Apparently, there's an imposter in the foyer. Charls rises immediately. Nicaise, who despises being left out or fooled in anyway, squirms out of Guilame's reach and follows Charls out. His heart pounds. He remembers the sapphire earring. He thinks of the slave who was really the rightful King of Akielos dressed like a Veretian nobleman. Once again, he grasps at the laughing feeling he witnessed on the rooftops and for the first time, Nicaise catches the tail end of it. 

He emerges through the heavy doors where he sees, among soldiers and the innkeeper, two familiar faces and understands the source of the confusion. 

Where he catches the tail end of a conversation and his heart soars and he feels so proud and wise that his instincts were correct.

Nicaise should stay hidden. He should be quiet. But he's been away from the bright charisma of his prince for so long, he simply cannot resist the urge to be drawn into his orbit. The Akielon soldier is grumpy and the Laurent subtly insults his king, so who can blame him?

The slave-king Damianos looks everywhere but at Laurent but it is doubtful such a man would care about exposed skin. When he spies Nicaise, lurking by the door, it looks like his head might explode.

“He is Charls, I have known him these eight years,” says the innkeeper.

“That's right. He is Charls. I am Charls. We are cousins,” says Charls. Nicaise sees the reflection of his own burgeoning exhilaration in Charls's face. He continues, “Named after our grandfather. Charls.”

“Thank you, Charls, this man believes I am an agent of the king,” says Laurent, stressing the up-and-down rhythm of his Veretian accent.

“Hello,” Nicaise says, casually strolling towards the group of men. He is a boy but he feels light on his feet in the presence of the prince. “I am Laurent, Charls' assistant.”

It takes all the will in the world not to burst out laughing. The lies and double-talking don't quite shock Nicaise. But Laurent, Akielon hater and Prince of Vere and Acquitart, heir to the Veretian throne is wearing traditional Akielon garments. You can see his thighs! It feels like a great disrespect, even to Nicaise, to see the fiercely private prince so scantily clad and yet, he cannot help but look at all that flesh. 

“Please do not go assuming that boy is the prince in disguise,” Laurent says to the disgruntled soldiers. “He is much too young and not half as attractive.”

Nicaise's heart swells with warmth. He's too happy to be offended at the insulting lie. Half as attractive. Even now, he is just as attractive as Laurent. 

-

After a little bit more explaining, Charls still vouches for the new arrivals and they are drawn into the table by the fire. Naturally, Laurent sits at the head of the table by Charls. 

“This is my assistant. Lamen,” he says, and relegates the King of Akielos to a stool at the end of the table. Guilame gapes. Nicaise suppresses a smirk. He makes a point to catch Damen's eye when he lifts his fork. Damen bears it, as Nicaise supposes, he has born any number of annoyances and indignities including Guilame complimenting him on his command of the Akielon language and telling him how his boss had once met the Prince in person. 

Nicaise is warm all over, sitting at this bizarre meal in an Akielon inn. No matter what happens next, he will be by his prince.

When the temperatures drop, most of the men disperse to attend their business and Laurent despatches his assistant to see to the men outside. 

“Perhaps your young apprentice might help me with my belongings?” Laurent suggests. 

“Isn't that what your assistant is for?” says Nicaise. "Lamen, is it? Let him carry your sacks." He's been waiting a long time for Laurent to acknowledge him. It makes him peevish. Immature. 

“Lamen is otherwise occupied. Come, Laurent. Help me move our stuff upstairs.” 

Our.

Charls and Guilame do not share a room. It seems like at least one of the rumours about the rightful kings of Vere and Akielos is true. That, too, makes Nicaise prickle. It's not his business. It's not anyone's business. Certainly, objectively, he can see the what make one attractive to the other. But, still. Part of him feels like Laurent belongs to him, that they have a bond that goes deeper than blood or romance, and he doesn't like the idea of anyone being closer than him.

Dutifully, and not without a spark of excitement, he follows Laurent to the room he has secured. The inn is large. There are several empty rooms but he only wants one. 

“Nice dress,” Nicaise says, looking at the prince out of the side of his eye.

“This is not a dress, it's a chiton. All the men wear them here,” Laurent replies, non-reactive to the jibe. “Believe me, my friend, you would know if I was wearing a dress. Now, put that bag there and send for enough bath water for two people. No, three. He is very large and we have been on the road a long time.”

“You do smell like horse,” Nicaise says, before he seeks out the serving boy. The boy is no bigger than Nicaise but his arms are lightly muscled from hauling heavy buckets up steep stairs. Nicaise notices this with a mixture of jealousy and personal interest.

“Nice freckles,” Laurent says, when the boy is gone.

“Nice cuff,” Nicaise counters. The prince goes a little bit red and Nicaise feels as accomplished as if he had just climbed a mountain. Then, he's confused, because the usually distant Laurent is extending a hand and curling it around his shoulder. “You stink of horse,” Nicaise says. “Fuck off.”

“I am glad to get the chance to see you again,” Laurent says.

“Everyone is glad to see me,” Nicaise says, and his voice cracks a little. “I've been hearing lots of tales about you. Are they true?”

“Probably.” Laurent offers a tiny smile. “Unless they involve me being a shirker and a traitor. In that case, they are only partially true.” He relays what Nicaise knows to be an edited version of the events of the past few weeks. The best part is – Govart is dead. The worst part is – well, there are too many to count but the most pressing one is how much Laurent is dependent on the prince-killer. He speaks frankly, without adornment, until the name Aimeric comes up, and then he says very little at all. Nicaise knows he should tell his prince what Orlant said in the woods at Nesson but he's not brave enough to admit his own mistakes. He tries to ask what exactly happened with the letter but Laurent will not let him interrupt.

The facts remain as Nicaise already heard – Damianos and Laurent have formed an alliance in order to remove Kastor from the throne in Akielos and firmly ensconce Laurent on the throne in Vere. It all comes down to a whore and a mystery baby, and Nicaise narrows his eyes.

“What's the real plan?” he demands. 

“That is the plan,” Laurent says. “My water's going to get cold. Thankfully, it takes a lot less time to remove Akielos garments than --”

“You've got something else up your sleeve.” Nicaise knows Veretian politics. This is too neat by far. 

“Alas, I have no sleeves. But, my boy, the letter is the winning card. There's little to be gained in showing your whole hand at once.” Laurent turns his back. “I'm sorry, Nicaise. You'll have to go now.” His voice changes in some private amusement. “There's a man I'm supposed to meet.”

“You trust him,” Nicaise says, still puzzling this whole thing out. 

“You're going to need to be more specific.”

“You know who.”

“Yes.”

“But he--”

“But I,” Laurent says. “We are none of us without a murky history, Nicaise.”

“What's it like?”

“None of your business.”

“I don't mean fucking,” Nicaise says. “I know what that's like.”

“Trust me, you do not. Unless...?”

“Don't change the subject,” Nicaise says, reddening. “I --” He stops; turns to leave. He knows what it could be like. He knows that anyone who would run across starlit rooftops and fight by your side and go from hatred to something pure with the prince is special. It's all anyone wants out of life, really. 

“I'll see you in the morning,” Laurent says.

-

Nicaise considers intercepting Damianos before he can go to the prince's rooms. They've both played these games before. He imagines the look on the slave-king's face – the sting of rejection and the annoyance that comes when you are not used to being told no – and it brings a smile to his own face. He imagines sneaking back to the prince's room and spending the night telling him about all he's learned and seen these past weeks.

But his plans are for naught. From the window of his own shared room, he sees one of the inn servants lead Damianos by lamplight back to the building. He pictures the slave-king's bulky form picking his way up the narrow stairs and his insides feel funny. The room is too hot. 

Nicaise sneaks down the backstairs and goes to the outbuildings where the most loyal people in Akielos and Vere are camped like commoners. It gives Nicaise great pleasure to see that rotten councillor Guion relegated to such a low position. There were men, back at the court, that you could tell were not comfortable with Nicaise being the Regent's pet. Guion was not one of them.

He recognises Jord and a couple of other Veretian men. He hates that they know about his past. It's been nice to be among people who don't know his former life these weeks. He didn't realise how nice it was until a sick look passes over that Jord's face at the sight of Nicaise. 

“You're Nicaise,” says the Akielon who came to the table at the inn. “I am --”

“I know who you are, Nikandros.” It's important to have the upper hand when you can. And Laurent did tell him about the kyros of Delfeur who, by his accounts, is annoyingly decent and unwaveringly loyal to Damianos. 

Nicaise's reply seems to amuse this Nikandros. “You are a lot like him,” he says. “What are you doing here? Snooping or spying?”

“That's the same thing.”

“That depends on your intention, boy.”

“I just wanted to see,” Nicaise admits. For no reason he can identify, he finds it easy to be honest with this man. “That's all.”

“All right.” Nikandros shuffles a deck of cards. “Do you want to play?”

“I don't know any card games.”

“I'm on watch. I've got time to teach you.” 

Nicaise settles onto the dusty ground. Lanterns flicker. The shadows seem alive, here. Nicaise feels alive, like they are all on the cusp of something important. There are Akielons and they just normal people. There's another twist inside at the sight of one of the prince's men sharing a blanket with one of the young Akielons.

Nikandros calls over a man called Atkis and they demonstrate the game. It's not hard to be pick up. Nicaise is a fast learner. Soon, they deal him in. Mostly, it's a game of chance. There are few opportunities to outwit your opponents. You just have to make the most of the hand you hold. No wonder the game isn't popular in Vere.

When Atkis goes outside to relieve himself, Nicaise looks around again. It's still a surprising thing to see these men together and none of them actively killing each other.

“Do you know the difference between a peach and a nectarine?” Nicaise asks, when Nikandros pulls a bright green apple from his pack and takes a bite. 

“Should I be waiting on the punchline?”

“I was just thinking out loud.”

“I suppose,” Nikandros says. “That one is hairy and one is not.”

What an insight.

The next hand, Nicaise comes close to winning. He's brimming with the prospect of victory. He's full of nerves and for a change, that's not an unpleasant feelings. Even though he doesn't have the better hand, he was nearly there. He could nearly taste it. And it's not bad at all. 

-

The princes (since neither have been officially crowned, Nicaise decides that's the easiest way to refer to them) seamlessly fold themselves into Charls merchant wagon and move on south. It should be weirder than it is for Nicaise to retreat into a wagon in the middle of the day to practise reading with Laurent. It should be more unsettling to be surrounded by Akielons, in Akielon territory, to be an enemy several times over. But Nicaise feels the safest he has in his own life and that's only partly because he came across Damianos and Nikandros casually sparring behind two wagons one day. No-one could get past their guard. Laurent isn't bad either. 

“He was always going to win,” Nicaise says. “Back then. He --”

“No. I can't talk about this,” Laurent says, and he's watching too. 

“It was no-one's fault,” Nicaise presses.

“It was one person's fault,” Laurent says. “Come. I want to see that composition exercise.”

“Have you forgiven him?” Nicaise can't stop the words spilling out. He just wants so badly to understand these foreign, grown-up things. “Do you love him?”

“Nicaise,” Laurent says, firmly. “I am your prince. You cannot ask me those things. If I allow it, everyone in the kingdom will think they can ask what they wish of me.”

“But --”

Laurent looks away from Nicaise, through the gaps in the wagons, at the King of Akielos panting and sweating and smiling with his old friend. “You'll know all the answers one day.”

-

They depart from Charls when the princes decided they cannot endanger him any longer. There are strange conversations about slavery and cloth, that are only strange because the answers are so obvious they should not need to be said. 

“I'm not leaving you,” Nicaise tells Laurent. 

“It may not be safe,” Laurent says.

“It definitely will not be safe,” adds Damianos, in a rare acknowledgement of Nicaise's existence. He's different in Akielos than he was in Vere. Quieter. Sombre. He walks like he already wears a crown. “I know what he means to you,” he says, so quiet that only Laurent and Nicaise can hear.

“I wasn't asking permission.” Laurent looks right into Damianos's eyes and will not break away. It's un-nerving, for all involved.

“I can ride in the wagon with the --”Nicaise begins.

“Absolutely not,” Damianos interrupts. “Make your goodbyes to Charls.”

It should annoy Nicaise that the slave-king tells him what to do. Generally, it annoys him when anyone tells him what to do. But there's something about that Damianos. When he speaks an order, you feel compelled to obey. He makes you think whatever he says will be the best thing for you.

Oddly, Nicaise has some unexpected sadness to bid Charls and Guilame and the wagons filled with silk and cotton goodbye. Well, the fabrics were often exceptionally pretty. 

“I'll thank you now,” Nicaise says. 

“My boy, you are very welcome.”

-

At their next camp, Nicaise wonders if he has made a mistake. They are deep in enemy territory without any mask of respectability. The usurper king's whore is locked in a wagon and Nicaise just cannot see what political value she holds.

He brings this up to Laurent, fearing that his uncle was right all those months ago and the first flush of whatever it is the prince feels for Damianos had clouded his judgement. The Regent hates women. Nicaise has learned enough of men to figure that the whore's value to Kastor lay in the fact Damianos had her first. Men always covet what belongs to their betters. Nicaise knows. He was the Regent's pet.

“They can't possibly care for her that much,” he insists. He's so very worried.

“It's about the child. We cannot risk that – Nicaise you know we cannot leave a child to his mercy.”

“Since when do you feel like that?” Nicaise replies, peeved. “Anyway, it's only a baby. He --”

“The baby deserves a good life,” Laurent says. “He doesn't need to grow up like us.” 

The prince left Nicaise to the Regent's mercy, knowing fine well the Regent has no mercy. Nicaise sulks and storms back to the rest of the group. There's some hushed discussion about Laurent flinging his bedroll at Damianos earlier. Pallas is still upset at the insult. Lazar is doing his best to comfort him.

“Why are you so shocked?” Nicaise demands. “Damen was a slave. He was the prince's slave.”

"We do not use familiar names," Atkis says. 

"All of Arles did," Nicaise replies. "We all saw Damen crawl."

“Stop,” Jord begins.

“Oh, now you speak. I thought someone had cut out your tongue,” Nicaise spits back. He can hardly hear his voice above the racing of his heart. He faces Pallas. “You would have died if you had come to Arles. Your precious king, painted with gold and draped with jewelery, getting towed around on a gold leash. The noblewomen groped his cock in front of the whole court.”

Nikandros approaches, wiping sweat from his face. “Is this some Veretian tactic, boy? You're not shocking me. I've been here before.”

“I spat in your king's face,” Nicaise continues. He had that power, then. Then. “I stabbed him in the leg with my fork. I laughed when the Regent described his flayed back.” 

All the Akielons are standing now. Pallas has his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Nicaise braces himself for the onslaught.

Which comes from behind, unexpectedly, as Damianos takes hold of his shoulders and bodily lifts him away.

“Brute,” Nicaise spits.

“Rude brat,” Damianos responds. “Why are you so angry?”

“I was just stating facts.”

“It's not too late to send you off to Charls again. Or north, to Vannes and Makedon.”

“Do what you want. You're the King. You and him, you don't have any idea what it is like to--” Nicaise stops. He feels a great shift in his brain, powerful as the snap of a whip. Damianos is unaware of this change, of course.

“To feel powerless?” He counters. “Nicaise, you are young. But only the weakest person would lash out at others because they feel insecure themselves. It is done. You are gone from Arles. Do not – are you listening?”

_He doesn't need to grow up like us._

“I need to speak to you alone,” Nicaise says, hoarse. He doesn't have all the pieces yet. But the fact of a plan hinging on that betrayer Jokaste starts to make more sense. 

He remembers the houseboy back in Nesson-Elloy who took one look at Nicaise and knew what he was. The street rats playing games in the city who called him a whore. Nicaise feels a new empathy for that spark of recognition. How easily the prince played pet. Being drawn into games too intense, too vicious, for either of them in Arles. 

“We are alone.”

“Where we cannot be overheard.” Nicaise is reeling. He also feels a tiny bit important when Damianos heeds his word. Less so, when he drags him into the trees as if he is about to unleash some Akielon corporal punishment for the insult against his person.

“Speak,” Damianos commands.

“It's about the prince,” Nicaise begins. “And his uncle. I think --” He tries to find a way to say it. He has seen Laurent verbally tear men apart who repeated the Regent's favourite insinuations regarding him and his brother. “I think,” he says. “No, you think that your identity was the Regent's greatest weapon against Laurent and that together you two have somehow overturned his plans. That may be true, but there are always other plans.”

“What do you know?” Damianos demands. He can be scary when he wants to be.

“Nothing...just.” Nicaise could be hung for what he's about to say. “The Regent has another weapon. But I have the shield.”

-

Nicaise knows about two things : denial and dismissal. So, he's not entirely surprised when Damianos doesn't exactly take what he's saying on board. Firstly, Nicaise is afraid to be his usual direct self about it. Secondly, it's a really really awful thing to think about it. Thirdly, the King of Akielos has a blind spot about matters of family. Fourthly, that Damianos seems to as good at pretending things are not real as he is at wielding a sword.

Nicaise doesn't take it personally. He watches a little more carefully when the two princes move away to their private sleeping area under the stars. Damianos looks at Laurent as if he's the most precious thing in the world, but, Nicaise has learned, that is nothing unusual at all.

-

Mid-morning, after the princes have departed for the Kingsmeet (which, honestly, Nicaise still doesn't really grasp as a concept and everyone acts like it's such a big deal that he isn't brave enough to ask), someone remembers that Jokaste needs to be taken out to make water. 

There's a whole process, as if she is a vicious warrior instead of a slim young lady. Nikandros goes to the wagon. Jokaste is gone. 

“They decided to take her?” he asks, though they all saw Damianos and Laurent leave alone. “She has escaped?”

No-one knows. No-one answers. 

Nikandros speaks again, angrily. “I knew he had his own plans.”

-

There is nothing to do but wait. They play cards. Exchange stories. That Loyse woman keeps looking at Nicaise. Pallas and Lazar keep looking at each other. Nikandros offers to teach Nicaise a few basic sword manoeuvres but Nicaise declines. He's too nervous. Everyone's nervous. Jord keeps glaring at Guion. Paschal paces. Nicaise considers picking a fight to give everyone something to do but he practises his reading instead, no matter how much it frustrates him.

Day turns to night. The princes have not returned. By now, Nicaise is not the only one who sees that this plan never smelled right in the first place. If they weren't all so afraid of speaking up to royals they may have seen that before. 

Night turns back to day and a host of white-cloaked soldiers ride towards their camp. 

Nikandros, the most senior man here, raises one hand. A greeting. A sign for the rest of their group to stay back, especially Jord who's sword is already catching the light of the morning son.

The soldiers, who have come from the Kingsmeet, are not alone. They have Damianos, shackled again, scratched and bruised, blank in the eyes, and they speak just one sentence to Nikandros.

“He broke the laws of the Kingsmeet.”

“How is he still alive?” Nikandros demands. Damianos acts as if he cannot hear any of this. 

“They took the other one instead.”

Nicaise's world shifts. Nikandros is saying something about vomit and Jord is shouting and Nikandros throws his hand out and Jord is slammed into one of the wagons and Damianos comes back to life. 

“How could you let this happen?” Nicaise shouts, when the commotion has died down. “I told you what you needed to know. I told --”

“It was..." Damen says, "Unbearable to hear it from his mouth.”

-

Damianos goes to the white city alone. He insists. Nicaise does not protest. It's the only way. And, more importantly, it's what Laurent would do. Laurent, who is both cruel and selfless, has given up his last piece of leverage against his uncle and given Damen the slave-king the keys to two kingdoms. 

“Did he take the letter?” Nicaise asks Nikandros, while they make their own preparations. The smart thing would be to stick to his own countrymen. Without the bonds forged by two kings, there's every chance this group will splinter now. Nicaise should be looking out for himself now. He thinks he might be able to ingratiate himself to Loyse, if he bats his eyes just right. A grieving mother is a very workable target. Jord and Lazar would probably protect him out of loyalty to the prince. 

But Nicaise likes being around Nikandros, who is straightforward and confident and has lots of the same mannerisms as Damianos. Unlike the rest of the world, Nicaise doesn't think that Laurent is exactly a genius. But, well, if Laurent could trust Damianos enough to end his self-imposed celibacy and leave the fate of Vere in his hands than Nicaise thinks Damianos's closest friend is probably a good ally to have.

“What letter?”

“Are you being obtuse? I am trustworthy. I have done just as much --”

“Nicaise, I don't know anything about a letter.” Nikandros sounds tired. Well, screw him. They're all tired. “Damen never said.”

“Maybe they don't trust you.”

“He tells --” Nikandros breaks off. “I don't know. I don't know very much at all right now, Nicaise.”

-

It's probably stupid to walk into Ios with Nikandros. Stupid boys and stupid men walking into a city that tells you, as you approach, just by the fact of the sheer white cliffs that this is no easy place to escape, with a flimsy plan and stupid emotions in their hearts. Nikandros is about as high nobility in Akielos as one can get without being a prince. He is known to be loyal to Damianos. 

Nicaise can't believe they make it without being recognised.

He knows he's not important like that. But the city is crawling with the Regent's men and Nicaise spent too many days and nights by the Regent's side. They make it all the way up the palace steps. There's a tension about the place, the air before a thunderstorm, and it smacks like a thunderclap when a big brown soldier steps in front of Nikandros.

“Step aside,” Nikandros says, and the soldier obeys. They all obey. It's momentarily startling, because Nicaise is only used to seeing Laurent and Damianos pull rank. There is never anyone above them. No wonder the idiot slave-king, prince-killer, prince-lover, whatever he is thought he could break stupid ancient laws in that Kingsmeet place. No-one before Laurent had every told him what to do.

Nikandros leads Nicaise to a white room large it feels like the marble ceilings are made of clouds. Damianos is calling nonsense words of love, as if they mean anything when it comes to powerful men with grand ambitions. Laurent, shacked and dirty, still wearing a chiton among the ostentatious Veretian council in their finery, is protesting. Even now, he tries to protect Damianos.

Even now, facing death, he is trying to be clever. He is certainly cleverer than Damianos. 

It is no no surprise to Nicaise that his prince is still alive. He knows the Regent like to draw things out. 

The Regent.

Nicaise forces his gaze to travel up the four shallow steps to the dais to the occupied twin thrones. Kastor, the bastard sits confidently in his massive chair. It's like he doesn't know who he's sitting beside.

The Regent.

Nicaise is half-hidden behind Nikandros. He makes himself look at the man. The beard. The cool demeanour. The knowing expression that must prickle at Laurent. Nicaise looks, and his stomach drops. His world leaps backward to other times and his soul bears a pain that is worse than beatings, being scared, being invaded deep in your body, tearing skin, stretching muscle, the hot wet streak left on your face or running down your thighs. Worse than all of those things because they happen again, all at once, inside his brain. 

And no-one knows. No-one cares. From his guarded position, Laurent cannot even see him. If he could, he would ignore Nicaise. That would be a clever way to keep him safe. 

Guion is speaking. He's lying. The hall booms with so many voices – people who have never been told they don't have the right to speak. 

Nicaise's voice is gone. He wants to shout about the letter. But his voice is gone. And he never really got to read it. There's a black cloth. Nicaise knows what it means. He wants to run but the power in his legs is gone the way of his voice. Even in Akielon clothing, with short hair, and face changed by age and damage, Nicaise thinks the Regent might be able to sense his presence. It will be like when he spoke to Laurent. It will be like the houseboy at Nesson-Elloy. Nicaise will be seen and people will just know.

Laurent is brought before his uncle. He talks. Nicaise can't really hear but he sees that there is strength left in his prince. Laurent is clever. 

The woman is speaking. About her son. The dead traitor and the facts make Nicaise's face burn. Aimeric. Another one. And it's a burning thing because people care now. They are disgusted. People who turned their heads at Nicaise's abuse think sad thoughts about a noble boy, like Aimeric's young body and Aimeric's young mind are more precious just because he grew up in a castle. 

The woman is speaking. The Regent hates women so Nicaise, absently, finds a little bit of energy to take pleasure in the fact she is the one tearing him down. She's making it about that Kastor and politics but Nicaise knows nothing shames men like the exposure of their weaknesses. Boys are the Regent's weakness. 

And there's another boy. Younger than Nicaise. He sees him now, beyond one of the thrones, and he sees the troubled expression. He thinks how he would have felt when he was younger, to see the only person with the power to make him feel loved, sliced through with words. Nicaise's feet can move now. 

He thinks about his prince, and how he tries to give people chances. Even that Jokaste. Nicaise can give this boy a chance. He ducks away from Nikandros and finally (FINALLY) Damianos brings up the letter but now Paschal is talking. He's making it about him. Men always want to make things about them.

Nicaise is wearing sandals the colour of scorched Akielon earth and a chiton the colour of marble. He used to like wearing tunics, back at the other palace, so it's not weird for him the way it was for Laurent. His hair is shorter. He is taller. He could be any boy in the world, as he picks his way through the crowd. He wants to get closer to the boy.

He's taller than before but shorter than he was as a pet, where in the last months, he guzzled imported coffee because someone said it stunts your growth. The courtiers and soldiers don't notice him. His motley crew of travel companions have forgotten him. 

He thinks.

“Hey,” Nicaise hisses. “Come with me.”

The boy with the sweetmeats throws him a look that would sour milk.

Nicaise can respect that.

He's about to try an equally hostile approach, when his own name, his small boring name, one without history or family is booming around this big Akielon throne room. He thinks he's caught. He wishes for a quick death and for Laurent to know he tried his best, but then they're talking, talking as if he's not there. They're acting like is not there but they're saying good, kind, praising things about Nicaise. 

No-one ever says positive things about Nicaise, not even the prince. 

It's doing funny things, like twisting his heart and making his eyes burn and he's afraid to blink in case he embarrasses himself. 

The mood is changing. It's the bright skies when the storm clouds clear away. Nicaise only has eyes for Laurent, who everyone is seeing in the sunlight now. The council are on his side. The soldiers are on his side. Damianos of Akielos is gazing at the Laurent of Vere with that painfully loving expression. 

The Regent's time is over. Laurent dismisses his presence and his life. Nicaise can come out now. He considers it. He thinks he might spit in his face or hiss that he never, ever enjoyed it no matter how much he pretended otherwise. 

But he doesn't.

The Regent doesn't matter anymore. Not to Nicaise. Not to Laurent. But to the new boy with the sweetmeats, he matters a great deal. He yells and the soldiers remove him. Rough kindness. Nicaise follows.

He hears the thunk, the slap, blood and bone on marble, as he walks away.

“Hey,” he says to the boy. “I know you.”

“I've never seen you before.”

“I'm Nicaise.”

“I'm --”

“You can be whoever you want to be now.” Snippets of shouting leak out from the throne room. Something about Kastor. Other things about crowns. The halls are chaos. Servants in pandemonium, slaves in shock, soldiers running, chasing, clashing, surrendering. 

Everyone looking up.

The Regent is dead.

Nicaise is glad of his own nature. He's very much the type to rejoice in a death. He's chasing something inside his own self – that light-footed, heart-fluttering, dizzy feeling he's been wanting for so long. He is, he realises, capable of it now. Joy.

He smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. His face doesn't know how to treat this new demeanour.

Everyone is looking up.

Nicaise recalls a long ago night, a false-sleep in the Regent's awful bed, and a message relayed with sly pride – Bells ring in Akielos. Kastor is crowned. 

Bells are important here. The keeper said that the gift-slave was muttering about them in his drug-induced sleep and the Regent had let his lips pull back into an evil smile. Nicaise remembers, because he had just got new bells for his throat and his ankles that same day. A personal gift. 

“Come with me.” Nicaise holds out his hand to the other boy. He doesn't even grimace at the sugar-spit stickiness of his grip. They take off running through the frenzied corridors, feet-slapping against the marble, just two more boys with news of the rightful kings. No-one looks at them. They might as well be invisible.

Nicaise feels, with every step, that the next one might take him clear off the ground. It's rooftops and swimming, winning and freedom. Chasing instead of being chased. Floating instead of being held down.

“Where are you dragging me?” the boy asks, and he is smiling now too. Nicaise considers his answer. He might say _wherever we want_ or he might say _to see the world change_ or _to see the crows pick out his beady eyes._

“Keep up,” he says, instead. “We're going to ring the bells.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I hope you liked my little go at giving Nicaise some happiness. The title, by the way, was inspired by Third Eye by Florence and the Machine.


End file.
